


The Stories of Skyrim

by MisfiredSynapse



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Blood, I have a lot of feelings okay, I have zero regrets, I'm going to try keeping it pg, Kissing, Multi, Multiple chapters, NSFW Chapters, Religion, Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, Swearing, Thalmor, Violence, WARNINGS APPLY, an excuse to show my faves some love, but i feel like it'll be a while, characters will be tagged as they appear, death scares, descriptions of injuries, i dont know how long this will go on, irregular posting, many characters many pairings, nightingales - Freeform, nsfw is in its own chapters, oh look i'm trying to be witty, oneshots, probably will feature lots of elves, reader beware there's shameless smut ahead, standalone stories, there is sex now, this is most definitely a kissing book, woe is me, writing banter is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 26,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15401967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisfiredSynapse/pseuds/MisfiredSynapse
Summary: Skyrim is a cold land. Harsh climates, hard lives, wilds full of dangerous beasts and bandits. Finding comfort in one another is often the only way to survive. **Showing my favourite NPCs some love in the form of one-shots**





	1. Preface

Welcome to the Stories of Skyrim. Here you will find tales worthy of the Bards- stories of great romances, mighty battles, and finding home in the most impossible of circumstances. You will find familiar and not-so-familiar faces here.

It's a plot shop, drabble drop. Where I'll post bits and pieces of whatever I'm in the mood for writing; more than half will be standalone and not expanded into full-fledged fics. It's also not a request book but if there's someone you think deserves a bit of love, give me a shout and I'll see what I can come up with. NSFW chapters are labelled in the title so feel free to skip those.

**This is most definitely a kissing book, unashamedly.**

Keep your eyes to the road, friends.


	2. Brand-Shei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brand-Shei/Original Redguard Character.  
> She is unnamed. No dialogue.  
> Background NPC romance.   
> Mentions of character death/adult situations.

Brand-Shei notices her at once. Most locals do. Newcomers to Riften weren't uncommon but lone travellers- especially ones carrying so much trade- were easily spotted. She spends the day in the market. She haggles with Madesi and almost gets Grelka to crack a smile. By time she arrives at his stall, Brand-Shei has had plenty of time to rearrange his wares to suit her eye.

She drives a hard bargain. Her tongue is silver, her eyes the colour of a summer sky, and she smiles at him like she means it, so by time she is walking away he is left feeling a little swindled. He double-checks the locks that night.

She returns several times over the next few days. Brand-Shei always knows her by her laugh; it’s sudden and explosive, like it even takes her by surprise. It quickly becomes his favourite sound in the market’s racket. She tends to stroll around with Mjoll and Aerin, the pair being sure to fill her head with their anti-Guild ramblings. She never goes to the Inn like everyone else. Brand-Shei realises he doesn’t know where she sleeps. It isn’t the Bee and Barb, or the Temple, or even Beggar’s Row. She certainly never comes to the Bunkhouse. Though Haelga's infamous dislike of anyone young, pretty, and female might have something to do with keeping her out. 

He resolves to pay more attention. She rarely leaves the market during the day. If she isn’t bartering everyone down below their lowest price, she is sitting with one of the beggars, talking. Sometimes she brings food for them, cooked meals and strips of salted meat they can keep for a few days. Marise says she purchases all the old food for them and cooks it herself. 

She gets a reputation quickly as a helper. Everything from errands to fetching materials, she is rarely out of a job. Soon, she is spending more and more time out of Riften and in the wilds of Skyrim. Brand-Shei surprises himself with how much he dislikes the days she is gone because it means she was likely in danger. But then she returns and has a bag overflowing with treasures, visibly brimming with exciting tales. She sells the lot with everyone else before she comes to him, the transaction his last for the day. She lingers with him, telling stories of how she acquired each item and he listens dutifully, suitably awed and worried for her at the same time.

-/-

Brand-Shei notices the interest in her. Any available woman- especially someone new and even remotely exciting- gathers quite a bit of it. Whenever she is in the market, Valindor is sure to speak in poetic sentences, comparing her to everything from a flower to the fierce cathay-raht roaming the forests between Valenwood and Elsweyr. Bolli speaks of his Fishery, the money it makes, and wears his finest clothes with a coin purse fit to burst on his hip. Hemming Black-Briar is careful to mention how powerful his mother is and strut around Dryside like he owns the town. 

She pays none of them even a hint of attention. Even Tythis, with his famous bawdy flirting, can’t get more than a polite smile out of her. Brand-Shei feels a measure of happiness at this. She isn’t wooed by charm or wealth or showmanship; just as well, because he has none of that. Even if he is planning to get to know her better. Which he isn’t. At all. 

But when she swings by his stall with a smile and a handful of mostly worthless junk, he finds his mouth going dry. She smiles and laughs and when he takes a chance to ask her for lunch one day, he is surprised when she says yes. They eat together on the crates beside his stall, and she laughs at the faces he pulls when she offers him spiced wine from Solitude. It isn’t bad- just different- and it makes him feel bubbly inside, or maybe that’s all her. 

She is gone the next few days. Edda asks after her like he should know where she is, and when Brand-Shei can’t say, the old beggar woman clicks her tongue in annoyance. She mutters something about the girl being mad about him- Brand-Shei swallows his hope and ignores the comment. He is an old mer and she is a bright young woman with a wonderful future ahead. She doesn’t need him in her life.

She returns with treasure as always. This time, she asks if he would eat with her for dinner and when he makes for the inn, she leads him around it. At first he thinks the Bunkhouse, but she takes his hand and opens the door to Honeyside. The interior is sparsely furnished but the fire is lit, two chairs facing it with a table between. She lives alone for now, she explains, but has a housecarl who is due to arrive within the next few days. 

Brand-Shei revels in the pride warming his heart when she tells him about dealing with a skooma dealer on the docks and clearing out a smuggling ring. She is the new Thane. She holds the Jarl’s esteem and he tells her that he is glad she chose to settle in Riften. Her blue eyes are soft and her hand is warm on his when she thanks him, sincerely, and his heart flips over in response.

This becomes the new routine. They speak for hours in the evenings and he often wakes in her spare bed. The morning routine of waking to her voice and eating breakfast over her table quickly becomes commonplace, comfortable, and sorely missed when she is away. A few weeks into the routine, she gives him a key and tells him to make use of the house as he pleases. She gives him the housecarl’s room downstairs, which is rarely used even when they are home. Iona has taken a shine to Balimund the Blacksmith and spends much of her free time in the Scorched Hammer. Soon he can’t remember the last time he slept in the Bunkhouse. Haelga is getting jealous.

-/- 

She is tired, always tired, but she refuses to deny a job. Brand-Shei worries for how tired she is and resolves never to send her on a quest for his own sake. Her housecarl, Iona, is a small comfort as he knows she has someone watching her back while she is on the road. 

For months nothing changes. Brand-Shei lives in Honeyside, she comes and goes with Iona whenever she pleases. It all seems too good to last and, as is the harshness of life in Skyrim, the happiness comes tumbling down with devastating consequences. She accepts a job out near Ivarstead, something about clearing out an old crypt. Nothing she hasn’t done before. Brand-Shei sends her off with the usual be careful, as he always does, and tries to ignore the feeling that something terrible is about to happen. 

A week crawls by with no sign. He tries not to worry, but the knot in his stomach grows bigger with each day she isn’t home. He misses her, he’ll admit to himself and no-one else.

When she returns, pale and haggard and limping, she makes a beeline for him. She doesn’t stop to barter, or chat, just walks straight behind his stall and wraps her arms around him. He feels her bones under his hands and his heart breaks. It shatters when she sobs and hugs him tighter. Brand-Shei shuts the stall and takes her home.

Two days later, he stands with her when her housecarl is brought home on the carriage. Iona- a stern Nord who became more a friend than housecarl- is carried to the Hall of the Dead and laid to rest.

She doesn’t speak much until they’ve eaten the stew and drank a bottle of wine. He asks if she wants to talk about it. She says no and poured him another generous glass of wine. He speaks of happy things and soon she is smiling again, even if her eyes are ringed with sadness still. 

By time the wine is gone, and she is slipping onto his lap, he is too far gone to stop her. He hears himself asking why me and she sighs softly, fondly. Her reply is a kiss, and he finds himself lost in her. She tastes like wine. He wants to kiss her forever. He doesn’t know how they make it to the bed but they do, and suddenly they are naked and she’s on top of him and his whole body is attuned to hers.

Afterward, she asks him to stay. He does. They sleep tangled together and wake in the morning, shy kisses turning deeper as they realise the passion isn’t dimmed for lack of wine. They don’t need to be drunk to be attracted to one another; that has been a given for weeks but now it was proven. He takes control this time and revels in how she clings to him, shuddering, his name a breathless chant in his ear.

 -/-

He asks in the morning whether she wants things to change between them. She had been upset and they both were drunk the night before, though her participation had been equally eager in the morning's hush. Brand-Shei can’t shake the idea that he is a distraction for her grief and nothing more; he realises when she flinches away from him that he has spoken his thoughts aloud.

She seems uncertain and it doesn’t suit her. She plays with her fingers and speaks so quickly he struggles to keep up- she talks about how she slept near the forge for weeks when she first arrived, how she saw him give money to the beggars, saw him offer what little he had to help others. How she enjoyed that she could talk to him and feel like he was a friend, like he cared, and wasn't just listening in the hopes of getting something in return. How, even when she was away, she thought of his voice and would go out of her way to collect things he might like because she adored how he smiled. How she saved him for last because she wanted to spend the longest time with him, how she picked up every bit of useless crap to sell because it gave her an excuse to talk to him. 

Brand-Shei lays stunned in her bed. She looks readier to cry the longer he is silent, until he begins to speak as well. Of how he had seen her the first day she arrived, arguing with Grelka over the price of leather. He tells her that watching them haggle had brightened his day. How she was the first thing he looked for each morning, like the sun hadn't risen until he saw her. How he adored her kindness, how she always had time for everyone. He told her how he watched her talking with Madesi and how he loved the crinkles between her brows when she was concentrating. How he would buy all her random crap and haggle over nothing for an excuse to see her for as long as he could. How he worried when she was gone, how he couldn't take his eyes off her when she came back. 

She is beaming when he is done. Brand-Shei grins stupidly back, is still grinning when she kisses him. The kiss turns into more and with the uncertainty gone, they fall together once more. When they are both finished, she rolls to the edge of the bed and drags her bag out from under it. He strokes her back as it is exposed to him, his grey skin contrasting with the black of hers. 

She rolls back over with a necklace dangling from her fist. It’s a Skyrim thing, she explains, and though neither of them are from Skyrim it feels like the right thing to do.

Brand-Shei laughs and fetches the Amulet of Mara out of his shirt pocket. He tells her that he has had it for weeks but never had the courage to wear it for her. She confesses that she's only had hers for two days but she secretly considered them to be married already. She comes home to him most evenings; he keeps her house and heart warm. Brand-Shei hasn’t had a proper home since he left Black Marsh and he tells her he would love to share hers, permanently. 

She cups his face and smiles at him, her blue eyes bright. Ours, she tells him firmly. This is our home. 

And it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always choose to spare Brand-Shei. I started playing on PS3 and had the never-get-out-of-jail glitch, so I'd always "accidentally" lose the ring. Besides, I secretly like the idea of messing with Maven.


	3. Niruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, we're still in Riften.  
> Niruin/Dunmer OC, Mivela.  
> Swearing. Brief kissing.

Delvin seemed certain that some higher power- be it Aedra or Daedra or something in between- was dogging the Guild’s footsteps and throwing them to the guards. Niruin hadn’t been remotely superstitious in his entire life, but after three botched fishing jobs in a row, he was well and truly pissed off. His latest mistake had seen him caught with his hand in Torbjorn Shatter-Shield's pocket, and hauled off to the wretched ice-pit beneath Windhelm. They had kept him for a week before growing tired of taunting him. The guards were short as it was and the failed pick-pocket wasn't considered a priority prisoner. Two hulking Nords in Stormcloak blue marched Niruin across the stone bridge and threw him down in the snow, his belongings tossed at the frozen inlet for good measure.

"Don't come back," they warned.

"Like I'd fucking want to," he spat back.

The trip from Windhelm to Riften was miserable. It rained for the first two nights and for the second pair, it felt like he ran into every Y'ffre-cursed bear in the whole hold. He was not in a pleasant mood when he slumped into the Flagon, enduring the sharp teasing from Vex and the long-winded ramble from Delvin. Neither did much to improve Niruin's spirits. He swiped a bottle of wine off the bar and downed it before he opened the Cistern door. The empty bottle found a home with the pile of others, waiting to go back to whichever underhanded supplier it had come from.

Mercer looked up from his desk and narrowed his steely eyes. The Guildmaster rarely left the Cistern anymore. He prowled around in front of the Vault like a hagraven with a bent feather, snapping and snarling at anyone who got too close. Mercer liked to talk a big game. He hadn't taken a job in years, since he inherited the top job from Gallus. But he could still reduce a man to nothing with words alone; Niruin had been on the receiving end of that lecture more than once. The Guildmaster had a way of picking up on a person's biggest weakness and dragging it out for the world to see. Determined not to get his failures displayed like a Heart's Day banner, Niruin dropped into the shadows on the edge of the Cistern. He crept around the long way, avoiding Vipir and Sapphire at the kitchen table, and dodging Rune's good-natured smile. The boy was good with his hands but his heart was too soft for the Guild. It was anyone's guess why he had joined in the first place.

Niruin heard the irregular  _hissthunk_  of an arrow; the dull sound echoed in the empty training hall. It gave him pause, glancing back over his shoulder to see Vipir still trying to chat up Sapphire on the other side of the Cistern. Of all the Guild, there were only three who favoured a bow over anything else. But the third member of their archer’s trio had been away for over a year. Nobody knew what happened to her, only that she went out on a job in the Reach and never came back. Mercer called her a traitor and refused to send even a scout to find out. Delvin had clicked his tongue and said a half-arsed prayer for her shadow-blessed soul. Niruin had not-so-secretly taken all the Markarth jobs for weeks, an excuse to dig around in search of her. His efforts had gained nothing but dead-ends and more guard attention that he liked. His search had ended with nothing. Returning to Riften alone, he had felt the emptiness of the Cistern like a physical ache. Niruin wasn't a sentimental elf. But damned if she hadn't made off with some part of his heart when she left.

She had been gone, but the ache she left behind had stayed. Niruin thought himself very good at keeping her out of his thoughts, but all at once the long-buried hope that she might still be alive rushed into his mind and he could see nothing else.

His pace increased to a jog, then an all-out run. Niruin careened around the archway and spotted her at once. She was thinner than he remembered, her tunic hanging off her body. Her hair, always a source of pride, had been haphazardly chopped into messy layers. But there was no mistaking her for anyone else, and his heart gave a great leap to see her. In a whisper like prayer, Niruin called her name;  _"Mivela?"_

She spun, releasing the string and sending her arrow skittering across the ground. Her bow followed it to the flagstone and she stood, clutching her ribs, glaring at him with blood-red eyes. “By the Three,” she hissed. “What are you sneaking up on me for, Niruin!”

His joy faded, concern swiftly rising in its place. “I never used to be able to,” he said. Mivela’s face pinched and she muttered something in reply, turning her back to find the bow. It wasn’t hers. A simple hunting bow, a coin-a-dozen thing she could have picked up from any two-bit bandit camp in Skyrim. Niruin remembered the bow she usually carried. Made of ebony and enchanted with a toxicity curse, it had been the perfect weapon for a perfect sneak. Sleek and deadly; like its wielder. “Where’s your bow?” he asked. The question sounded daft to his own ears.

Mivela coughed. It sounded like a sob but when she turned to look at him, there was no emotion on her face. “In Markarth,” she said. And after a moment, added bitterly; “In fucking pieces.” He winced. She waved off the gesture of sympathy with an impatient snort, her attention returning to the cheap hunting bow. It took far too much effort for his liking for her to bend down and pick it up. Mivela stubbornly didn’t look at him as she walked behind the firing line, every step stiff and far too calculated to be casual. She was hiding it well, but he had worked with her for nearly half a century. There was little he didn't know about her by now. Still, Niruin said nothing as she returned to her practice. One of the targets was already peppered with misfired arrows, the center ring woefully empty. The look on her face was one of irritation and she lifted the bow, pulled the string. He didn’t miss the grimace on her face at the effort it took.

“You’re hurt," he said. Niruin took a half step towards her but Mivela's glare cut to him, and he stopped in place.

“You’re observant,” she muttered. Steeling herself, she drew the bow and released an arrow. It flew fast but wide, striking the very edge of the target. Mivela’s grey face turned purple, her head dropping in defeat. Niruin took the risk of approaching her, when a moment passed and neither of them moved.

“Come on,” he said gently, taking the bow from her hand. She let him take it and he could hear the way her breath stuttered in her throat, catching on tears she would never let anyone see. “I'll buy you a drink.”

_“Buy?”_  she repeated, with the ghost of a smirk. Niruin lifted an eyebrow and, without thinking, leaned down to kiss it away. Mivela stiffened and he pulled away immediately, face drawn with anxiety and regret. He tensed, waiting for her reaction. Mivela's smirk grew to a grin, and she tapped her fingers against his cheek tenderly. “I missed that,” she admitted quietly. "I missed you."

Niruin smiled, his forehead pressed against hers. For the first time in months, the ache in his chest was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I'm going to play as a mage this time  
> also me: *gets bound bow and maxes sneak archery*


	4. Cicero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cicero x Redguard Listener, Samira.  
> Gets slightly suggestive towards the end.  
> Surprisingly tame considering Cicero's involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far this is just a "how many characters can I snog" fic. I regret nothing.

They set up camp on the hill overlooking the town. It was a good place to get a feel for the rhythm of the place, to watch the guards patrol and see which streets were left alone, which parts of the wall were mostly overlooked. From their hidden vigil they could plan their entry, their exit, and several escapes, all without ever setting foot in the town. Useful for when they didn’t want to be seen anywhere near the place.

Their encounter with the wolves on the road had left her hands torn and bandaged. What little restoration they knew between them wasn’t enough to fix her fine motor skills. Only time could heal it, but time was something they didn’t have. After days of tailing their mark through Skyrim, they had finally chosen his date of death. Sithis was waiting for a soul; the Listener and the Keeper would not disappoint.

She sat on her bedroll, a hand mirror placed in a sling hanging from the tent pole. With clumsy hands she tried painting on the effigy of a skull, her usual linework reduced to smudges and smears. Samira swore under her breath and scrubbed it off to start again. She would go to this job with her face naked; Cicero didn’t like it. She wore her warpaint as both a mask and as an armour. As he played the jester, she played the nightmare. A child of the Void itself.

“Listener,” Cicero began, his voice quiet.

“Cicero,” she said, her voice short. Not irritated at him, but at her lack of finesse. Samira didn’t like being bare-faced either. As a Nightshade petal over dead eyes was her calling card, so her warpaint was her identification. “What’s the matter?”

He tilted his head. “Will you allow Cicero to help you?”

Samira was quiet for a minute, staring at her reflection in silent consideration. She rarely allowed anyone to get too close to her, physically or otherwise. Cringing away from physical contact, Samira even disliked touching the people she killed. Cicero knew what she could do with a blade; he had no desire to see her practise her art on _him._

“Alright,” she said, at long length. “Come on then. I want this job done tonight.”

Cicero reigned in his eagerness but couldn’t resist a tiny caper of glee. Quickly sitting cross-legged in front of her, he took the pot of clay paint and the brush as she handed them over. Samira knelt, her hands pressed against her thighs to soothe her nerves. “Cicero will be quick,” he promised. She just nodded and closed her eyes when he started.

He knew the pattern. He could see it on her face even when the paint wasn’t there, could see it when he closed his eyes and thought of her voice while she was away. Samira sat perfectly still as he painted, only her eyes moving to try following his hands. Cicero stuck his tongue between his teeth and leaned in, gentle, deft fingers sweeping the brush across her dark skin. The contrast between it and the paint was startling, but familiar.

Her lips twitched in a small smile when he painted over them. Straight lines to mimic exposed teeth; cutting her lips into sections. When she would open her mouth to snarl, the lines parted like the Void opening to swallow a soul. It was Cicero’s favourite part.

As the paint dried on her skin, he ran a thumb over the seam of her lips. Samira’s breath hitched, her mouth parting, and Cicero was hardly aware of leaning in until his nose brushed against hers. He stopped, eyes on hers, and backed away quickly.

“Cicero is done,” he announced, aware that he was dancing with danger. She rarely permitted anyone to touch her. Cicero was determined not to waste his opportunity. But he didn’t want to push her, either, lest she forbid him from ever being close again.

“No, you’re not,” Samira mumbled. Her hand curled around the back of his neck and pulled him back, her mouth sliding over his in a heated kiss. Cicero froze. She pushed against him more insistently, flicking her tongue against his lips. His body reacted before his mind caught up; eyes fluttering closed, hands curling around her hips when she shuffled forward to straddle his lap.

Her knees sat either side of his hips, her hands on his face, fingers delving into his hair and pushing the hat off his head. Cicero flung one arm back to balance on, his free hand trailing up and down her spine. Samira shivered and rocked into him, a moan torn from his throat when she bit down on his lip. “Mother have mercy…” he muttered.

Samira laughed, her forehead against his. “Don’t bring her into this,” she said. “This is for you and me, Cicero.”

Her warpaint was smudged and Cicero could taste it in his mouth like clay. The mad giggle bubbled out before he could stop it. “Cicero did not know the Listener had such feelings.”

The hands in his hair began a lazy stroking, earning a sigh and soft smile from him. “I rather adore you, you know,” she admitted quietly. Samira pulled away, uncertainty pushing her hands down. Cicero opened his eyes to stare at her, offended that she’d stopped. “But only if you want this too,” she said. “I don’t want you doing this because you think I’ve ordered you to, or you think it’s your duty, or-”

A blaze of fondness went through him. The Jester’s voice was silenced, and in his place, only Cicero remained. “Samira,” he said, his voice lower than usual. “I have never wanted anything more in my life.”

The words sank in, her realisation blooming with a beaming smile. This time, when he pulled her in, there was not a force on Nirn strong enough to pull them apart.


	5. Marcurio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcurio x Vampire OC, Lissien.  
> Bittersweet/romantic. Lots of kissing. And crying.
> 
> A set of connected scenes that were intended for a full multichap fic, but the project was abandoned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're back in Riften.  
> Have to say it's my favourite city, despite the corruption and the Ratway and the "stagnant canal", so it probably smells like a fish's backside IRL.

“I want to marry you,” she said, loving the way his entire face lit up at the words. “But not like this. You deserve better than me right now-”

“But I don’t _want_ better,” he insisted, sweeping both her hands up in his. Marcurio pressed kisses to her fingertips, feather-light, feeling the coldness of her skin against his lips.

Lissien allowed the attention, melting into it. “Marc, love. You deserve a woman who can stand before Mara and pledge the rest of her life to you. I can promise to stay with you for the rest of _your_ life, but not for mine. And I don’t want that.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” he whispered. “Be it a year, two, or even just today. I’ll take it, just so I can say you were _mine.”_ Marcurio slid closer to her, his hands sliding into her hair. Lissien leaned into his touch, a soft sigh escaping. She wanted to cry. The pressure built behind her eyes but of course, her tears had long since dried up. It didn’t stop the tightness in her throat from choking her every swallow.

“Marc,” she murmured, her voice cracking. “When I marry you, I want to be _whole.”_

He wrapped an arm around her back and pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin. Lissien practically curled into his side and stayed there, listening to his heart skip a beat when she began tracing patterns on his thigh. Not to tease, or to start something she could never finish, but simply to thank him. For everything.

-/-

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

Lissien froze at the alchemy table, mentally running through conversations trying to pick the one he meant. Marcurio drifted into the lab and made himself at home on the chair behind her, riffling through the open book on the table.

“About marrying me,” he clarified, when she remained silent. “And spending the rest of our lives together.”

“Oh,” Lissien said, carefully avoiding his eyes when she looked around. Marcurio wasn’t looking at her though, instead studying the woodgrain on the wall. Her chest ached when she recalled the talk, the space where her dead heart sat constricting with fear. It wouldn’t be the first time a lover had realised the inequality of their lives. It _would_ be the first time Lissien would fight to keep one. “What about it?”

Marcurio blinked out of his thoughts, but when he looked at her he wasn’t meeting her eyes. Focussing over her left shoulder, he took a breath and very quietly said; “I want you to change me.”

Lissien’s stomach dropped like a stone. If it were possible, her face paled even further and her hands trembled as they curled into fists. She fell to her knees in front of him, shaking her head. “Marc, _no,_ I could never- would never-”

“Think about it,” he insisted, the idea coming to life in his head. He ran with it then, the prepared arguments pushing to the forefront. He knew she’d protest it.  Marcurio sprang to his feet and began to pace while he talked, as Lissien stayed on her knees and watched him. “I wouldn’t grow old, we wouldn’t have to worry about that. We can stand in front of Mara, pledge eternity, _and mean it._ There would be no time limit, and we’d both be a little broken but it wouldn’t matter. Change me. I know what to expect and I’m willing to do it. I mean… unless you don’t want me,” he finished somewhat uncertainly. The fire in his eyes dimmed and he sat back down, wilting under her long, silent stare.

Lissien wanted to cry. She pushed the heels of her hands against her dry eyes and sobbed, dropping her face against his legs. Marcurio stroked her hair and whispered to her, trying to soothe her. Lissien never thought she would allow herself to get this close to Marcurio, never thought she would feel the tug of _want_ in her gut. Her body might be dead, but her mind and heart were most certainly alive _._

“You beautiful idiot,” she said hoarsely, when the dry sobs had died out. Marcurio flinched at the words but her tone was warm, and her hands clasped his tightly. “You perfect darling, wonder of wonders. How did I ever get lucky enough to find you?”

“You paid me, remember?” he said, risking the joke.

Lissien sobbed and pushed herself into his lap, knees either side of his hips, and kissed him. “Best decision I’ve ever made,” she mumbled against his mouth. Marcurio groaned low in his throat and kissed her back, leaning up to chase her lips when she pulled away. “But I won’t do that to you. I won’t condemn you.”

Marcurio hissed through his teeth. “I _want_ you to.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Lissien sighed, shaking her head. She kissed him again when he started to pout. “I love you, Marcurio. I will give you all the time I can, until you send me away, but I won’t do that. Please, _please_ don’t ask again.”

With a reluctant sigh, he nodded. Within a minute Lissien had the urge to _do something,_ and she hauled him out of Breezehome and into the sunshine. She cringed at the pain, but it didn’t stop her playing tag with the children, goading him into joining in. Marcurio wasn’t an idiot. She was distracting him, and he knew it. By time they collapsed in her bed that evening, he was too tired to bother bringing it back up.

-/-

Marcurio woke alone. It wasn’t unusual; Lissien didn’t like being still, and he never begrudged her using the hours he slept to research if that’s what she wanted. He did wonder where he would find her, if she’d be bent over the alchemy table or buried in a book. It was a game between them. He would deploy every spell he knew to silence his approach, trying to outwit her unnatural senses.

He had never won yet.

Lissien wasn’t in the main room. He checked the alchemy lab to be sure, but it was empty too. Nothing looked out of place. He even peeked into Lydia’s room. The housecarl often woke before dawn and accompanied Lissien out into the plains for a hunt, or just to keep lookout while Lissien sated her appetite on some unfortunate bandit.

Lydia was snoring softly in her bed. Marcurio frowned to himself and wandered back downstairs. Breezehome was well and truly empty. Worry started when he found her travelling pack gone, along with her favoured staff. It was rare she went anywhere without him these days. Marcurio woke Lydia at once, apologising, but asking if the housecarl might know where Lissien had gone.

“I’m afraid not,” said Lydia, her face grim. “She didn’t say anything to you?”

“No,” he said, a hard edge to his tone. “She was there when I fell asleep. I don’t even know how long she’s been gone…” he pushed his fingers into his own hair, pulling to try distracting himself from the panic. In seconds they were out and searching. Lydia ran to Jorrvaskr, to the Companions. Marcurio went straight for Farengar, hoping she would be there at the arcane enchanter.

Nothing.

He met Lydia by the Gildergreen. She had Farkas and Vilkas in tow, the large Nords glowering with determination to find her. Lissien spoke highly of the pair; Farkas had been the one to invite her to the Companions, despite their conflicting natures. She was everything he was supposed to hate; vampire, thief, spellweaver. Yet, Farkas had looked beyond all that.

Marcurio was never more grateful. The twins made a beeline for the main gate. Lydia ducked into the Bannered Mare. Marcurio returned to Breezehome, turning it upside down for any sign of where Lissien might have gone. There was _nothing._ Aside from the ever growing dread in the pit of his stomach. He left their home and all but ran towards the stables.

“Marcurio!” Lydia hurried to meet him under the drawbridge, holding a note in her hands. Addressed to him and sealed with a piece of twine. He all but tore it away to read it for himself, his heart racing then plummeting to the ground.

_Darling Marcurio-_

_I’m sorry for leaving without a word. I tried to loan a horse but they still hate me. Please tell Lydia not to fuss- and don’t you worry either. When I return, I will be whole. Wait for me._

_All my love._

_Lissien._

He crumpled the note in his hands, shaking his head. Lydia watched him worriedly, palming the hilt of her sword. “She’s gone to find a cure,” he said, the words dropping like stones from his mouth.

-/-

Life rushed through her limbs. She took a breath and _felt_ it fill her lungs, her chest expanding, her nerves singing with feeling. There was a fluttering in her chest, a steady _thump-thump_ of her own heart beating for the first time in two centuries. Lissien heaved, her stomach rolling, as sensation after sensation rolled over her. Her senses were dulled; eyes no longer sharp, ears no longer hearing the flap of a butterfly’s wing. She couldn’t hear any heart but her own, couldn’t scent blood on the breeze.

“Are you alright?” Falion called. He stood at the edge of the circle, watching her struggle. Lissien’s head shot up and she stared at him, wondering at the softness to his image. Her human eyes couldn’t see him properly through the dawn mists, she couldn’t hear his heartbeat, she couldn’t smell his blood.

Lissien felt her eyes sting and tears began to pour down her face, happy tears, overjoyed ones, terrified and ecstatic. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, loving the way it tugged at her heart and rattled through her chest. She was _crying_ and she was _laughing_ and she couldn’t decide which felt better in the heat of the moment.

“I’m alive,” she whispered, staring down at her hands. Gone was the unnatural white. Warm brown skin looked back at her, veins in her wrists faintly blue with blood. Flowing, _real_ blood. Lissien struggled to her feet and ran to the swamp, falling to her knees in the icy water. She was freezing in seconds but desperate to see, craning her neck over the first puddle of water and waiting for the ripples to subside.

Her eyes were rimmed red, puffy, her face swollen from crying. Tears made shiny tracks over the redness on her cheeks, tumbling down over brown skin that looked so _alive._ Lissien didn’t recognise herself. Shaking hands reached out to touch the reflection, the woman in the water who wasn’t a walking nightmare, who looked so much more beautiful than she ever remembered herself being. _Life,_ she thought. The life in her eyes- _her eyes were blue!-_ gave her more beauty than anything else.

Falion was where she left him, waiting for her. He staggered when she flung her arms around him, weeping thank-yous into his robes and squeezing him tight. He laughed and patted her back, prying her off him so he could examine her properly. “It’s gone,” he announced. “All traces of the disease. Welcome back to life, my dear.”

_“Thank you!”_ Lissien cried again. Falion bid her good luck, and she turned her sights to Whiterun. It occurred to her after an hour of running uphill, and getting completely out-of-breath, that a human body would need nourishment. Her stomach rumbled. While a vampire could smell food and _want_ to eat it, it all tasted like ash in her mouth. She thought of Marcurio’s fancy Imperial spices and her mouth watered.

_Marcurio._

Lissien’s cheeks flamed with a blush. Her heart skipped a beat and she had to stop and press her hand against her chest, worried that it might stop beating completely. The swooping of her stomach pulled a grin to her face; how she adored her own reaction to the thought of him. It made her desperate to see how she might react to seeing him, touching him, _kissing him…_ she could sleep in his arms, warm and safe, she could sit with him by the fire and not worry about bursting into flame.

She could _live._

-/-

Marcurio saw her coming. He’d spent the last three days on top of the guard’s wall, staring at the road. A large part of him had wanted to run after her, to be there for her through this trial as he had been through all the others. Insecurities flooded his mind; what if it failed? What if she was still a vampire? _Would she remember him?_ Would she even come back?

If she was human again, would she _want_ to?

Lydia brought him meals and watched him with sympathetic eyes. As worried as she was for her Thane, she had a house to keep and urchins to feed. Lucia and Sofie didn’t know why Lissien was gone, only that Marcurio had stayed. It was strange to see him without her, stranger still that he only ever came to Breezehome to sleep. As the days trickled into a week, then nearly two, Marcurio _itched_ to go out and start searching.

His perch above the portcullis gave him the perfect view to both the east and the west. It was from the west that he first saw the approach; a single person on the road, moving quickly towards the city. He could see no pursuit and no guards, unlike the rest of the travellers that he had seen. This figure held his attention, and his mouth went dry when he recognised her.

_“LISS!”_ he bellowed.

Her head whipped up, and her reflexes failed to save her from stumbling on something below. Marcurio scrambled down the wall and ran to meet her, sweeping her up in his arms and spinning around on the road. They looked a scene but neither could care. He breathed her in and Lissien clung to him, _warm_ and breathing, her heartbeat racing in her ears.

“I did it,” she whispered frantically, proudly, beaming up at him. “I did it, I’m human, I did it!” Her face was flushed, her hair was a vibrant copper. Her eyes- her eyes were _blue,_ beautiful, full of life and the tears she hadn’t been able to shed before.

Marcurio stared at her in wonder. He’d always thought she was beautiful even with the taint of undeath but seeing her alive… she was resplendent. Nothing could compare. “You’re human,” he repeated, loving the words and loving _her_ for what she had done. Marcurio framed her face with his hands, sneakily lowering one to feel for her pulse.

Lissien laughed and threw her arms around him again, nuzzling her nose against his neck. “My heart is racing,” she whispered. “It feels like it’ll burst, I forgot what that felt like.”

“How do you feel?” he asked, pulling back to examine her properly. Aside from the obvious physical changes, the dulling of the vampire’s ethereal beauty, she was still very much the same.

“Whole,” she sighed happily. Her eyes met his, her fingertips brushing his cheek. Marcurio closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “I’m _whole,_ Marc.”

“Liss,” Marcurio murmured. Lissien felt her breath hitch, her heart skipping and her chest tight. Her hands rested flat on his chest where she could feel his heart, could see his pulse jump in his throat. Marcurio tilted her head up with a gentle touch. “I would very much like to kiss you.”

“Alright,” she heard herself say.

The world fell silent at the first brush of his lips on hers, barely a peck. He backed away to process it, let her process it, his warm breath ghosting over her neck. She could smell honeyed mead and the desire to _taste_ it filled her mind until nothing else mattered. Lissien pulled on the front of his robes. She pushed up on tiptoes and kissed him back, harder, _properly._

It was as if Marcurio had been waiting for her permission and now that he had it, was holding nothing back. The hand on her hip pulled her flush against him, his fingers pushing into her hair to angle her properly. He opened his mouth against hers and Lissien’s toes _curled,_ a keening whimper starting somewhere in her chest. She pushed both her hands into his hair, clinging to him, begging him not to stop.

Lissien almost forgot she was human and that she needed to breathe. He broke the kiss but didn’t move away, panting, his forehead pressed to hers. His eyes were closed, and he was grinning, then laughing. “Gods above,” he said, utter bliss in his low voice. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates in a day... I think I need to lie down.


	6. Gelebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gelebor x Nord Dragonborn, Mjela ("Mee-ella")  
> Mentions of character death  
> Pining & loss  
> Also extinction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Gelebor sent my little history-nerd self into a mini meltdown. Especially when I realised I'd have to defeat Vyrthur & effectively leave Gelebor as the last of his kind.

It’s over.

Vyrthur is dead, the truth of the prophecy dying with him. The frozen Falmer in the Chantry shatter when their master's magic is destroyed. Serana stands and stares down at the ancient vampire, her face unreadable. It’s not yet dawn, but her hood is up.

Mjela slowly rises from her knees. She can feel every muscle in her body crying with exhaustion. She knows they aren’t quite done, but the last few days in the Vale have left her wrecked. The beauty of the place is marred by how difficult it has been to survive it. There are only a few minor healing potions left and Mjela downs them all, gagging at the taste and wishing for mead.

The closest Wayshrine opens and Gelebor steps through. Serana moves quick to cover his brother's body, but Gelebor smiles gently and moves her aside. He needs to see. Needs to be sure. Seeing the bitemark proves it. Vyrthur _had_ been a vampire, he _had_ invented the prophecy, and he _had_ led to the invasion of the Betrayed. Gelebor’s face is blank, his eyes closing with grief. Mjela wants to say something. She has no words to soothe a hurt like this.

"It is done," Gelebor speaks instead. He turns to her briefly, his pale eyes meeting hers. She can’t decipher the depths of his emotion but offers him a sad smile. He almost returns it. Mjela watches in rapt fascination as he says a prayer over his brother. Golden light falls from his palms along with the ablutions from his lips.

"Not quite," Serana murmurs, her voice soft. Mjela winces. They know what comes next. It will not be a pleasant task for either of them.

To prolong the inevitable, Mjela steps to Gelebor’s side. He has moved away from Vyrthur and is standing by the ramparts, staring silently across the Vale. The view is extraordinary. Mjela can’t muster enough enthusiasm for it; her attention is on the elf. "What will you do now?" she asks him quietly.

He glances down at her, his mouth and eyes both soft. He turns his back on the view and regards the Chantry. "I will stay, protect this place. Rebuild it. Perhaps someday the Betrayed will find their way back to Auri-El's light..."

"Alone?" Mjela asks. She knows his answer, yet it pains her to think of leaving him among ghosts and silence.

Gelebor pauses to look at her curiously. "Yes," he says, very quietly. "It shall not be so different than my vigil in Darkfall Cave. Though you are always welcome to return here.”

Without thinking, she wraps her arms around Gelebor's waist. He stiffens at the contact and remains as tense as steel until Serana coughs lightly. "We can't stay," she says. Mjela pulls back immediately, blushing, stammering an apology. Gelebor blinks in surprise and offers her a small, but true, smile.

Mjela leaves with Serana and Auri-El’s bow. Gelebor lifts a hand in farewell as they walk through the Wayshrine. He expects to never see them again.

Mjela returns three weeks later. Dusty, exhausted, with a satchel full of books, she staggers through the Wayshrine. Gelebor meets her on the balcony. He is still alone, has been alone, since she left last time. It has been a better experience than the cave, but far more draining than he recalls the Chantry being. Every hall, every room, is filled with evidence of Vyrthur’s betrayal and the invasion. Death clings to the walls like a thick cloak. Gelebor’s magic isn’t enough to erase four thousand years of tyranny.

But her smile when she sees him makes the air around her lighter. Gelebor smiles in return and takes her hand when she offers it, squeezing her hand between both his palms. “Welcome, Mjela,” he says warmly. "In need of arrows?"

"No," she says, shrugging off her overfilled satchel. "I have something for you."

Books. Every text was on the Falmer- habits, societies, powers, talents, culture. There is history and recounts of the Empire and Morrowind's Red Year, of the Oblivion Crisis, the Great War with the Dominion, the Reclamations. Everything he has missed and everything he needs to know about what his brethren have become.

Overwhelmed by the amount of generosity, Gelebor shakes his head in disbelief. Mjela catches the look and grins to herself, beginning to empty her pockets. Ink, quills, and tomes of blank pages; supplies enough for him to rewrite every book in the Chantry’s ruined library.

"... I cannot possibly pay you for all this," Gelebor says. Awestruck, his heart feels tight when she laughs.

“You're actually saving me. My housecarl says she'll throw me out if I don't start getting rid of some of the stuff I've collected."

He smiles. "It must be quite a collection."

Mjela’s face flushes a light pink. She scratches the back of her neck sheepishly. “You should see it,” she says. He doesn’t ask if she’s sincere, but the missing beat of his heart whispers of hope. Gelebor won’t leave the Chantry unguarded, his duty is his priority, but some part of him itches to follow her.

The books lay forgotten as she tells him tales of the rest of the world, swapping them for his memories of how it used to be.

When she leaves again, reluctantly, Gelebor turns to the books and feels warmer than he had in years. He cannot wipe the smile from his face.

Her visits become frequent. She always comes bearing gifts- building supplies, food, books- things he cannot salvage and cannot scrounge from the Vale. Mjela is always smiling. It makes Gelebor smile too.

Her visits extend from a few hours to a few days, the time passes with restoration work. She has no gift for magic but she’s handy with her tools, and her unnatural strength makes short work of the heavy lifting. They end the nights with stories. She has many. He has more.

"What will you do when you run out of stories?" He asks one night.

Mjela smiles at him winningly. "Make them up," she says as if it's obvious.

He hardly notices when the feelings start. Gelebor can't pinpoint the day that they appear, only that his heart flutters and he believes that his god has rewarded his piety with Mjela's company.

He adores her stories. He finds himself writing down anecdotes that she'll enjoy, picking the glowing flowers because she loves them so, making notes of the parts of the Vale she hasn’t seen. The Chantry is rebuilt and though it is empty but for him, the frequency of her visits is enough.

Mjela visits as often as she can. Duty comes first, for both of them, but he can't help but wish for the freedom to go with her. She has told him often that the world relies on her and he knows it from her stories. Gelebor had considered her an uncommonly kind woman, fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves.

“I’m the Dragonborn, Gelebor,” Mjela says, whispers through tears. She sniffs and wipes her face, breathing deep the clean air of the Vale. “Alduin has returned. I have prolonged his tyranny long enough and now I must face him.”

His blood freezes.

"I don't know if I'll make it this time," she admits, showing rare fear.

Gelebor swallows his and touches her cheek, gently. "I have faith," he said. Her eyes go to the statue and he gently shakes his head. "In _you_. Destiny awaits and I believe, with all my heart, that you will prevail. I only ask..."

"Yes?" She's closer, staring into his eyes, Gelebor is heady with anticipation and he can read the kiss in her eyes.

"Return here and tell me all about it."

Mjela nods. "Of course,” she says, in a whisper. “If you’ll be here, then here I will return.”

He’ll lose her in the morning. Gelebor is attuned to loss and solitude; he prays to Auri-El that this time will be different. He does not think of his god when Mjela’s kiss reaches his mind, blocking all thoughts but for how loud his heart is pounding. She leaves in the morning, slipping from his arms with a bravado she doesn’t feel. Every step is torment and, as she fights her way to Sovngarde, her mind wanders back to the Forgotten Vale.

Gelebor counts the days. When he reaches a hundred he starts to doubt. When he reaches a thousand, the doubt becomes hopelessness. Never once does he doubt that she intended to return, the day she bid him goodbye. The sinking realisation that she _couldn’t_ is what breaks him. After all he has lost, all he has endured, Gelebor had allowed himself to fall for the illusion of happiness. He stalks the Chantry and waits to die, as he has for the last few millennia.

When Auri-El finally calls him home, she is there to greet him. Gelebor embraces her with a thousand years of longing and Mjela laughs through tears. She is full of stories and his heart is full of that same warmth and light from years ago.

“I have so much to tell you,” she says, beaming.

Gelebor rests his forehead against hers, eyes closed in contentment. “I want to hear it all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanna give him a hug :(


	7. Farkas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farkas x Dragonborn OC, Faldi  
> Jumping off high things  
> Panicking & swearing  
> Death scare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do those little summary/warnings give away the plot? I feel like it does, but I don't want people going in blind & coming across something squicky.

“Can you wait here a moment?” Faldi paused in the middle of the College’s icy bridge. Farkas gave her a funny look, stopping beside her. She stepped to the edge, her toes dangling over. He nearly reached out to yank her back when she gave a Shout; _“FEIM ZII!”_

And _jumped._

Farkas wasn’t ashamed of the scream that he released, lunging for the edge of the bridge to see her glowing form disappear into the snowstorm below. _“FALDI!”_ he roared, terror pulsing in his veins. The wolf scrambled for release and he very nearly let it, knowing the sharper senses might be able to pick up on where she had landed.

Forcing himself up, Farkas sprinted along the bridge. He ignored Faralda asking what was wrong, ignored the guards giving him odd looks, ignored the Jarl’s servant trying to catch his attention. Farkas flung himself down the sharp decline, scrabbling for a hold on rocks and ice. He barely noticed the sharpness shredding his skin, or the trail of blood he had left behind. His thoughts were focussed solely on her, on finding her, praying to the Nine that she would be clinging to life… but not even the Dragonborn could survive a fall from that height.

Pushing thoughts of her broken, mangled body aside, Farkas staggered on through the gusts of frigid wind beneath the bridge. His eyes scanned the banks of the river, his heart pounding out of his chest. Akatosh wouldn’t let his Champion die, surely.

_“Farkas!”_

Her voice. Nearly whipped away by the wind, but it was her voice, calling his name. He shook his head to banish the illusion. The Gods wouldn’t torment him like this. She was dead, he knew she had to be dead, and now… the Divines would keep her safe, they’d give her back- Alduin was still out there, she had a _destiny,_ she couldn’t be… couldn’t be…

“FARKAS!”

He turned to the sound, expecting a ghost. The Faldi he saw was very solid looking, very real- and very warm, when she reached him and took his hands in hers. “What are you doing down here?” she asked, exasperated. “I said wait up there, and you’re… you’re white as a ghost, are you alright?”

Unable to speak, he touched his fingertips to her cuirass. Faldi watched him with unbridled amusement, curious to see what his next move would be. Farkas dragged his hands up to her face, cupping her chin in both palms and seeing the blood from his shredded hands colour her skin. He could feel her. He could touch her. She could clearly feel him; Faldi shivered at the cold touch of his hands.

“Faldi,” Farkas breathed out, and yanked her close. He buried his face into her neck, breathing her in, wrapping his arms around her tightly. Faldi yelped in surprise but soon melted into the hug, laughing.

“By Talos, what’s gotten into you?” she said brightly.

Farkas swallowed hard, twice, before he could make himself utter two words. _“You’re alive.”_

It took a second for the words to sink in. The moment they did, Faldi felt her heart plummet faster than a Dragonborn off a bridge. In the hazy confusion, she had forgotten he didn’t know. Farkas didn’t _know_ why she jumped, didn’t know she would be fine afterwards. She had explained it to Aela, to Vilkas, but Farkas hadn’t known what she was doing.

_Divines,_ he had just seen her leap into the abyss with no possible way to survive. How could she have been so stupid, so _thoughtless,_ so utterly consumed with her needs that Farkas slipped her mind entirely? “I’m sorry,” Faldi whispered, stroking both hands through his hair. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, Farkas I’m _sorry.”_

It took a minute for his tremors to subside. Another minute for him to get his voice working, and another still to wrap his head around the broiling emotions storming inside. Farkas pushed her away very carefully. Faldi’s hands fell from his hair and her voice left his ears, letting him clear his mind to think. “You,” he growled, hands curling into fists at her side. “You scared the fucking _shit_ out of me! Why the fuck would you- _how did you-_ I thought you were dead! Do you understand? I thought I watched you jump to your fucking _death,_ Faldi!”

She flinched at his volume, bowing her head. “I am so, so sorry, Farkas.”

“What in all Oblivion were you _thinking?!”_

Faldi couldn’t meet his eye. “I wasn’t thinking. It’s not something I _planned_ to do, I just… I had to,” she said, knowing the explanation was meaningless. She let out a sigh, pushing down tears. “It’s the closest I’ll ever get to flying.”

Farkas was glowering at her still. “Repeat that.”

“I said,” Faldi’s gaze snapped up to his. “It’s the closest I’ll ever get to flying.”

Farkas sucked in a furious breath. “What?”

“I don’t know how to explain it.”

_“Try,”_ he said sharply.

Faldi took a slow breath, not quite able to hold his gaze. She pressed both hands into her abdomen as if warding off pain, her eyes sliding shut as she faced into the wind. “It never used to be like this. I remember as a child I loved being up high, loved seeing the world from above… but it was never so… _demanding._ The longer I live with the dragon souls, the more I can feel myself losing grip of my humanity. They… I can hear them,” she pointed to her head, not her ears. “Whispering. Calling me to the sky with my brothers and sisters, but I can’t just up and fly and so they get louder.”

Farkas listened. The concept of voices in his head was familiar. He heard the wolf, sometimes, howling rage and bloodlust demanding to be free. He only had one voice. Faldi had dozens. If he had a dozen wolves in his head howling for release, Farkas knew he would struggle to bear that burden. “Does it hurt?” he asked at length.

Faldi’s face crumpled for a moment, before she pulled herself back under control. “After what I just did, you’re worried about me?” she asked in a very small voice. Laughed, but it sounded like a sob. “Farkas…”

“I hear the wolf,” he admitted, seeing her attention turn on him fully. “When I’m angry, or scared. It’s always there but when it gets loud, it’s hard to ignore. Sometimes I get headaches like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Me too,” Faldi whispered.

Farkas flashed a smile. “Does it… help?” he asked, pointing up at the distant bridge. Faldi followed his gesture and surprise flashed across her face, like she hadn’t realised before just how high it was. From below, it was difficult to see the bridge as anything more than a dark smudge.

“For a bit,” she said, with a shrug. “It’s always there. But at least I can hear my own thoughts now.”

They were quiet, both considering the demons they carried. Farkas considered again making the trek to Ysgramor’s tomb. He would brave the spiders this time and could finally be rid of the beast blood. Sleeping the whole night through sounded like a dream, but he knew Faldi slept like the dead- when she rarely allowed herself to. She reached up and scratched her fingers lightly through the scruff on his chin, silently beckoning him to follow her back up to the town. She knew the path well. Farkas knew she had made the jump before.

“Faldi.”

“Hmm?”

He stopped walking on the porch of the inn, catching her hand before she could enter. “Promise me something,” he said, trying to keep the begging note out of his tone. Faldi nodded, albeit warily. “If you need to… to do that again… you’ll warn me.”

A blush started on her cheeks and quickly flamed across her face. Sheepishly, she pushed up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I will,” she promised, tugging him through the door and out of the cold. Farkas followed her readily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farkas was my first husband, first in-game crush, and the first person I wanted to write a chapter fic with. Unfortunately life intervened and there's so much content gathering dust on my hard-drive so I'll stick with the erratic oneshots for now. Thanks for the reads/kudos! Very much appreciated!


	8. Faendal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faendal x Dunmer Oc, Danali  
> Pining, drunkeness,  
> Mistaken identity, making out.  
> A bit steamy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might turn into a full story eventually. I just love Faendal!

It had been months since she set foot in Riverwood. So much had happened to her, to Skyrim, that she was barely the same mild-mannered Dunmer she had been. Riverwood looked the same on the surface. The mill was there, the forge embers burning low in the late night. Sven and Hilde's house was dark and silent. The rest of the town looked much the same, dark and silent, with the glaring exception of the inn.

She lingered under the Trader's gables, listening to the unmistakeable sounds of a party. The Dragonborn's defeat of Alduin had sent the entire country into a partying mood. Even the Thalmor had eased up, but that was no doubt the calm before the storm. Her heart gave a little lurch. Now that the dragons were dealt with, the war would begin again in earnest.

The door of the inn opened, a sliver of orange light cutting across the road. A single person stepped out onto the balcony. She recognised him immediately, the white hair tied behind his head, the green tunic he always favoured. His shoulders slumped as he walked to the end of the deck and dropped down onto the middle step. The neck of a bottle hung loosely between the fingers of his right hand. He dropped his face into his left with a sigh.

She felt for him. He looked so forlorn that her feet moved of their own accord, carrying her towards him. He looked up at the scuff of her feet on the cobbled stone path. "Looks like some party," she said quietly.

Faendal smiled faintly. "It is," he replied. "Its the engagement of the year," he added, bitterly.

"Oh? Who's getting hitched?" She joined him on his step, pulling her coat tight around her shoulders. No matter how long she lived in Skyrim, the cold still bit at her skin.

He took a long drag of the bottle before he said; "Camilla and Sven."

She winced. "Ah. Shit."

"Eeeyup," Faendal nodded. His eyes tracked up to the Barrow, the adventure they shared almost half a year earlier. "You know, I really thought I had a chance. After I came back with the Claw, things were different. She smiled at me all the time, came up to the mill to talk... it was like she finally saw me."

Danali hummed in sympathy. She'd seen it first hand, how Camilla enjoyed the chase and the game of leading the two men on. Riverwood was a huge change from the Imperial City and Camilla had sought her entertainment whenever she could.

Faendal finished his drink and the bottle was dropped into the thistles. It clinked off a dozen others- one of Embry's dumping spots. "She even asked if I'd thought of marriage. Children... as if I hadn't made my intentions clear. Just when I thought to ask for her hand... Sven inherited his uncle's farm in Rorikstead and now they're getting married."

"I'm sorry," Danali mumbled. Faendal huffed his thanks, staring at the ground. He swayed slightly and she caught his shoulder before he could pitch face-first to the ground. "Lets get you home."

He nodded miserably. There was no fight from him as she half-carried him to his house. She had to fish the key out of his pocket- desperately trying to ignore the firm, warm muscle beneath his tunic- and unlock the door.

They staggered inside. Faendal released her and staggered for the water barrel, dropping himself head-first inside. The bubbles rose alarmingly fast beside his head; Danali could hear, faintly, the sound of a scream. Despite herself, she smothered a laugh. When he was done he stepped back, dripping water, running both hands down his face.

"Better?" Danali asked. Faendal tensed then turned, slowly, to face her. His face was flushed and he couldn't tear his eyes away from her. Danali froze at his approach, his hands cupping her face, mouth lowering to hers- "Faendal?" She whispered. She stepped back and he followed, until her back hit the door and there was no more escape. His eyes slid closed at the first touch of a kiss. Danali groaned aloud, unable to deny the pleasant butterflies in her stomach. Some part of her had wanted this since they met, since they fought their way through the Barrow.

Faendal shuddered against her. One hand slid into her hair, tilting her back. The other curled around her hip and pulled her flush against him. He kissed her again, deeper, until she was dizzy and breathless. He pushed a knee between her legs, his teeth working her neck. Danali's legs gave out; if it weren't for Faendal pressing her against the door, she would have toppled right over. She grabbed his shoulders, steadying herself, and scratched lightly to the tips of his ears. She turned his head and took the point of one in her mouth, sucking lightly.

"Ugh, fuck," Faendal grunted. His voice lowered to a growl. "Yes... just like that... Camilla..."

Like a bucket of ice water, Danali was snapped to attention. Her thoughts sharpened and she cursed herself for getting carried away. He was drunk, she was convenient- no matter how much she might have wanted him, Danali wanted him to want her. "Faendal," she said, pushing at his shoulders. He paused but didn't step back, hot breath fanning over her collarbone. "Stop- please. Stop!"

Faendal stepped back. His eyes wide, his mouth opened and closed with confusion. Horrified realisation sank in next, and Danali held up a hand when he began to speak. She tried to fight the lump in her throat but it was strangling her. Instead, she turned on a heel, flung the door open, and fled into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written on my phone as I'm without computer access this week; if the formatting is whacky then I apologise and will fix asap!  
> Same goes for tags, my ancient iPhone doesn't handle it well :(


	9. Ondolemar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ondolemar x Bosmer Oc, Syrene.  
> Injury, blood, guilt,  
> Death scares, open ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snarky characters are Bae. As much as I hate the Thalmor... Ondolemar is the exception.

Ondolemar had never felt useless in all his life. But with Syrene bleeding out in his arms, his adept restoration barely stopping the encroaching shroud of death, he felt utterly incompetent. He should have seen it coming. That the bandits had seemed more organised than most- this lot managed to hold an entire fort by themselves- hadn't done a thing to alert him.

It was all going so smoothly. The fight was over within minutes; organised they may have been, the bandits still had no chance against a former Justiciar and the Dragonborn herself.

But one archer, a lone attacker that neither of them had seen, rose from nowhere in the midst of their congratulations. Ondolemar had seen it in sickening slow motion. Syrene Turned to him, grinning at their success, and the Oblivion-born arrow whizzed past his ear to embed beneath her breast. There was a gap in her armour, tiny and imperceptible, but with some dumb luck and horrible timing, the arrow had sunk into her flesh.

He whipped around, eyes searching, and the archer died before ever pulling the string back on his second shot. Ondolemar cast a detect life spell. The thought of mages competent enough to conjure Daedric weapons hadn't crossed his mind. The other magic users in the fort had thrown flames and sparks, showy spells that he'd learned before the end of his childhood. He should have checked for survivors before, but no, he had been caught up in his own hubris and now she'd pay the price.

"Syrene!" He cried, falling to his knees. The arrow was gone, blood pulsing from the wound. The ties between Oblivion and Nirn had died with the archer. He didn't need to be a healer to know it wasn't looking good. She was still breathing but there was a crackle in her breath, wheezing out of her open mouth. "Please, open your eyes, look at me," Ondolemar pleaded.

He was not an elf to beg. His heart constricted in his chest, so tight he thought he'd suffocate on it. He glanced helplessly down the road. Whiterun was still an hour away by foot, the road was likely to be littered by hostiles. He could carry her for hours if he needed to. He would carry her if it meant saving her life.

Her diminutive size belied the strength in her body- but even she wasn't infallible. Ondolemar cursed himself for ever buying into the illusion that she was.

"I need to heal you," he whispered, praying to his gods and hers that he could. Restoration wasn't a talent of his. Still, she would be dead if he didn't do something. "Please, let me heal her..." the last whisper was to the Gods.

Slowly, agonisingly, sank his healing magic into the wound, knitting together the torn and broken parts of her. It was a superficial healing at best. He could fix the skin but not everything else; and the snow around him was stained with red. A thin line of it bubbled out of her mouth. It stained her silver hair and Ondolemar forced himself to look away.

"Please," he muttered, over and over as he worked. There were replenishing potions in his bag; he rarely expended enough magicka to need them, but she had lovingly insisted he carry them just in case. He had never been more grateful for foresight. Downing potion after potion, he finally had the skin stitched together crudely. He let his hands drop, his skin blistering from overuse.

He still needed Whiterun. He gathered her in his arms, trying not to panic at the feel of her skin. It was as cold as the snow, pallid and far too still. Ondolemar didn't have the courage to check if she was still breathing. She had to be, he told himself. She would be FINE. He'd get her to Whiterun and the priestess would heal her, she'd be up and about in a day or two, back to teasing him over nothing.

The alternative was unthinkable.

What would he do in a Skyrim without her? He had sacrificed everything for a life by her side and had never regretted it until faced with losing her. The Thalmor wouldn't have him back. He'd be lucky to return to Alinor alive. Where would he go, what would he do, in the frozen land that hated the sight of him?

Ondolemar pushed those thoughts aside. He increased his pace to a half-jog, as fast as he dared to run. She hadn't stirred since she collapsed. Her eyes remained closed and he choked on a sob with how much he loathed seeing her face so still, so unanimated.

She was so rarely still. A walking headache, a shroud of suffering, torment on two legs- all things he had called her in the past. Things she had laughed at, things she had pestered him into saying again and again. She was teasing smiles and careful touches, whispered promises and poetic phrases that dripped from her mouth like honey. She was muscle and scarred skin, fingers calloused from thousands of hours wielding a bow. She was a song that echoed in the Keep and stuck in his mind when she left, driving him insane with the desire to have her singing for him, under him, on top of him- however, so long as she was with him. She was heart and soul and warmth and laughter; things he had dismissed before but cherished now.

The gates of Whiterun remained closed as he approached. But at the sight of the Thane limp in his arms, the city was stirred like a shaken nest of bees. The housecarl- Lydia- almost ran him through. Tears pricked the woman's eyes and she bellowed at the top of her Nordic lungs- get out of the way, move, by the gods move- Ondolemar found her abrasive normally, but he was never more grateful.

Danica's face did not look promising.

"Who healed her?" She asked, voice hard. Ondolemar raised a weary, bloodsoaked hand. The priestess considered him for only a second before she shook her head. "You could have killed her," she snapped. "You've sealed her skin, yes, but the blood is in her lungs."

Ondolemar's blood ran cold. "Save her," he said, half a plea, half a demand.

Danica's hands were already alight with magic. It was as bright as a sun, the power behind it tasting sharp and sweet in the air. Ondolemar was glad the priestess chose restoration; she would be a formidable enemy in any other school.

The magic sank into Syrene's skin. At the touch, Ondolemar's attempts to heal her were washed away. Blood poured from the wound anew and Danica grunted with the effort of containing it. Her magic redoubled. Syrene arched her back and her mouth fell open in a tearing, agonising scream.

Lydia let out a sob and turned away, shaking hands on her face. Ondolemar refused to look away. It was the first sound she'd made and he would be damned before he let that be the last thing he heard from her.

Danica stepped back. Panting, the priestess fumbled for a magicka potion. Ondolemar swallowed and instead offered his own hand. "Take my power," he said. She looked at him with calculating blue eyes, but took his hand. Leeching his power, he felt his body cramping. It was nothing compared to the bone-deep exhaustion already clinging to Danica's sweaty forehead. The priestess tossed her hood aside.

For hours the Temple was silent but for the ring of restoration magic. Ondolemar drank potions until he felt sick; Danica did the same, using both her power and his. With every passing minute, the hope seemed to fade from the room.

At last Danica stopped. She let go of his hand and slumped forward over the altar, breathing hard. "I cannot..." she mumbled. "No more..." her ever-watchful acolyte caught her when she fell.

Syrene remained still and pale on the altar. Only the gentle rise and fall of her chest gave any indication that she still lived. Ondolemar took one of her hands in his- pressing his lips to her fingers. "Please," he said again, the prayer open for anyone who'd hear it.

The acolyte returned. He waved a hand over Syrene and let out a sigh. "The worst is repaired," he said. "There is little more we can do now but wait until she wakes on her own."

"How long?" Lydia asked gravely.

With a wary glance at Ondolemar, the acolyte swallowed hard. "Gods willing, she'll wake in a few hours."

"And if they're not?" Ondolemar asked without taking his eyes off her. The heavy weight in his chest- guilt and grief and shame- refused to budge. Nobody replied to his question. They all knew what the alternative was.

It felt as though the population of the entire Hold walked in to visit her. The mouthy guard on the gate had spread the news; the Thane was dead or dying, and Ondolemar was struck by just how loved she seemed to be. From the traders in the market to the Jarl himself; every one of them shuffled in, mumbled a prayer, and shuffled out again. As brief as their visits were, they each had a genuine respect for their Thane. Ondolemar felt his heart drop, his mind unbidden offering him an image of her funeral. It left him reeling, gritting his teeth, forcing the image down.

The Companions came as a group. Vignar Grey-Mane, still bitter over the Empire's surrender and losing his bid for Jarl, stood with them and never took his eyes off Ondolemar. Vignar was smarter than to speak, but the hatred from the man was palpable. He was gone from thought when the hulking twins stepped up to the altar.

"What happened?" Asked the short-haired one. Ondolemar never learned their names and never cared to. "Why didn't you protect her?!"

Ondolemar bristled. "As difficult as you may find this, Nord, I am not capable of being everywhere at once!"

The long-haired twin, quieter and broader but just as angry, shook his head. "I should've been there," he rumbled. "Nothin' gets past me."

Ondolemar glared daggers at them. "Well you weren't," he said bluntly. "And I failed her, alright? Are you satisfied with that?" His outburst seemed to strike something in them. They glowered a moment longer before leaving. Ondolemar found himself facing the women of the group, their solemn faces betraying nothing.

The single dark elf remained behind. "I've travelled with her," he said, clearly attempting to offer comfort. "She gets into everything and won't hesitate to throw herself in front of an attack. Especially when she cares about someone like she does you."

Ondolemar found his throat tight. He chose to ignore the last part of the elf's speech. "The archer was behind me. I didn't even see him until she fell..."

Athis sighed. "Tell me you killed the bastard."

Ondolemar nodded stiffly. "Too quickly." The dark elf lingered another moment before he left a small token of Azura by her side.

Lydia left as the shadows grew long. The temple had an ethereal light all of its own, but she seemed to recognise when the day was ending. Ondolemar didn't move. He'd stay until Syrene woke, then he'd stay until she was fit for travel, and he'd stay until the moment wanted him gone. If Auri-El preserved him, that moment would never come.

The housecarl wasn't gone long. She returned with a bed roll and a light meal of bread and cheese for him. Ondolemar felt a rush of affection for the rough Nord; it surprised him with both its suddenness and its intensity. Lydia gave him a tired smile all of her own. They had never- would never- see eye to eye on anything. The single exception was Syrene.

"Thank you, Lydia," Ondolemar said as she turned to leave. "I'll send for you the moment she wakes."

"Please do," the housecarl replied softly. "And... thank you. For bringing her home."

Ondolemar nodded stiffly. Lydia leaned over her Thane and gently brushed her forehead with a kiss. The prayer she mumbled was to Talos- many had prayed to the false god- and Ondolemar ignored every single one. If the prayers worked, then he didn't care which Divine (or not) had interfered.

The city succumbed to night around him. Ondolemar remained still as a stone in his vigil, clasping one of her cold hands to his cheek, his eyes locked on her face. He nearly screamed for Danica when Syrene fluttered her eyes; the movement was brief and over before he could draw breath.

On tenterhooks, Ondolemar watched for another sign. But she was still. His body cramped and cried out for food, for rest; he was determined to deny all of it until she was awake. Because she would awaken, surely. They had come too far- done too much- for her to die now. He realised with a jolt of grief that he didn't know where her soul was promised. If he'd see her in Aetherius or if she was tied to some realm of Oblivion, or if Shor would lift his conditions and welcome a Bosmer to Sovngarde.

But he knew, no matter what happened, he'd fight tooth and nail to find her there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a full story planned for Ondolemar too. I just can't help myself!


	10. Erandur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erandur x OC Nimhaneth  
> In my head she's Bosmer  
> Brief mentions of nudity,  
> killing, death, betrayal,  
> one swear word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erandur is a darling, isn't he? I've only ever killed him once (for the achievement!) and I felt so bad after. Now I usually get the AFT mod and take him to the Temple of Mara, where he hangs out when he's not following me. I just can't leave him in that gloomy old tower!
> 
> Probably the longest chapter to date, but I couldn't pick an ending point.

“It won’t work for me,” Erandur said apologetically, hardly daring to touch the bottle lest he ruin it. “As a sworn priest of Mara, it overrides everything else. The Torpor would only work for a Vaermina cultist or the unaffiliated.”

Nim’s face betrayed nothing of what she was feeling. “Well, we’re in trouble, because I’m definitely affiliated,” she said bluntly. Erandur raised a questioning eyebrow. Nim stared at the blood-red liquid inside the bottle, swirling it to see the light reflect off the glass. She didn’t elaborate and he took the silent hint not to ask.

“Oh,” he said, his heart sinking. “That certainly does complicate things.”

“I have a few friends,” Nim pointed in the vague direction of outside, her jaw clenching reluctantly around the words. “They might be willing… but I’d rather not involve them.”

“There’s one other option,” Erandur said softly. She didn’t miss the way he avoided her eyes or stepped just slightly away, suddenly wary of her in a way he hadn’t been before. “You could… forsake your vows.”

Nim sucked in a sharp breath. Loose fingers nearly dropped the Torpor, before she hurriedly put it down and stepped away. It had occurred to her as well, of course, but forsaking Nocturnal… the Prince had disowned Karliah for _Mercer’s_ betrayal, almost destroyed the Guild in the process. What would Nocturnal do if a Nightingale _willingly_ abandoned her?

On the other hand… the thought of spending eternity defending the Evergloam _still_ sat heavy in her gut. The vows she said without truly understanding, or wanting, anything that came with them didn’t feel binding. Nim had regretted how blindly she followed Karliah. Revenge and anger had tainted her judgement and Karliah had played on that, played Nim like a fiddle, until she stood in front of Nocturnal and sold her soul to Oblivion.

“I would do this myself, if I could,” Erandur said quickly, an edge of desperation in his tone. Her silence unnerved him, the black depths of her eyes unreadable. “Mara’s love was hard won and I dare not revoke my vows now. I am deeply sorry to ask this of you and of course I understand if you refuse-”

“Fine,” Nim said quickly, waving his worries off. Erandur fell silent at once, anxiously watching her wrestle with her decision. If she gave up the Nightingale mantle, would the Guild suffer for it? All those months of slaving away, reclaiming cities, pushing through Nocturnal’s punishment to bring back the glory days, would they be for nothing? Nim closed her eyes, breathed deeply through her nose. “I’ll do it,” she said.

Erandur let out a tense breath. “Thank you, my daughter. I know this wasn’t easy.”

Nim snorted, but there was no trace of amusement amid the pinched worry on her face. “You have no idea, Brother.” _What’s worth more- my soul or their gold?_ She pushed the thoughts of the Guild out of her head, firmly. They would recover. There would be others to take her place. Thieves, as Nocturnal had said, were replaceable. _Desperate is as desperate does, makes thieves out of kings._

The process of swearing her to Mara’s protection- and thereby, out of Nocturnal’s service- was simple enough. Nim already carried the title of Agent of Mara from the Temple; wasn’t _that_ a surprise, when she began speaking the vows alongside him, without prompting. Erandur nearly broke out of the trance to watch her. As the prayers came to an end, Nim felt tears running down her face. _Whole,_ she thought. For the first time since Nightingale Hall, she felt _whole._

With Nocturnal’s grasp loosened, the tether broke. She felt a soft trembling against her skin and looked down; the Nightingale armour was _falling_ off her body, thousands of scales transforming into thousands of tiny ravens. They flocked and flew into nothingness, leaving her shivering in nothing but skin. _“Shit!”_ she swore, hands flying to cover herself.

It took Erandur longer than he liked to admit to turn away. He took a few deep, calming breaths before the sudden tightness in his throat was gone. Nim shuffled behind him, the sound of fabric pulling against skin, and she let out a weak little laugh.

“I’m decent,” she said. Erandur turned back, the smile freezing on his face. Purple robes, snatched from a table, covered in familiar dark violet swirls. Though her armour had clung to her like a second skin, seeing her in the robes of Vaermina was what made him _stare._ Without the mask over her face he could see her clearly, properly, for the first time. Younger than he thought she’d be, smooth brown skin, pointed nose, a graceful curve in her ears beneath a mess of black hair. “Erandur?” Nim said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said, visibly shaking himself. “Forgive me, my daughter.”

Nim barked a laugh, slapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the following giggle. “Please,” she said, eyes shining. “Don’t call me ‘daughter’ after you’ve just seen...” Her hand swept over the front of her body, a toothy grin on her sharp face. Erandur forced himself not to follow her gesture and instead allowed himself to laugh with her.

“Are you ready?” he asked. Nim sobered remarkably quickly, adjusting the robes over her slight frame. They didn’t feel right, she thought. Used to the clinging of the Nightingale armour or the smothering of leather, the way the robes swished around her feet was foreign.

“Nope,” she said, ripping out the stopper with her teeth. The Torpor smelled… like nothing. That was perhaps the most unsettling thing about it, moreso than not knowing what would happen once she drank it. Not being able to identify _anything_ from smell alone set her teeth on edge.

Erandur watched her carefully. “I’ll watch over you, I swear it,” he said.

Nodding, Nim threw the Torpor down her throat. It tasted like nothing and felt like mud sliding down her throat. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, scowling in disgust. “So how long until this stuff kicks-” the question cut off with a choking sound, Nim’s eyes rolled back in her head and she pitched face-forward to the ground.

She slipped right through his fingers and sank right through the stone, out of sight. Erandur dropped to his knees, heart pounding in his chest, hands pressed to the stone where she had fallen. “Mara protect her,” he uttered, horrified. “Mara protect her where I cannot…”

-[-]-

Nim opened her eyes. Everything was hazy, like a rippled glass held over her face. She sucked in a deep breath, lifting her hands in front of her. The hands that responded were not her own. Fear tingled down her spine. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move- only watch. This body was not her own. It was both _less_ and _more;_ there was no Thu’um in the back of her throat, no pressure from the dragon souls inside her mind. But there was power in her hands, fire and strength she had never felt before.

“We can’t hold them off any longer!”

The eyes that weren’t her own looked up. A Dunmer and a Nord ran to her side, their faces hard, the Nord’s eyes narrowed with fury. “They’re already inside,” Nim heard herself say. The voice that came from her was not her own, but it was familiar- familiar enough to turn her blood to ice. Her eyes were forced to the Dunmer, clearly the leader. “What do we do?”

“The Miasma,” he said grimly.

“Veren, _no!”_

 _“We have no choice, Thorek!”_ Veren roared. “They cannot be allowed to take the Skull! Or have you forgotten your vows, Brother?”

Thorek lowered his eyes. “Of course not,” he said, his fists clenched.

“Brother Casimir,” Veren continued, his eyes boring into Nim’s. She felt for a moment that he could see _her,_ but the moment passed quickly. “Are you ready to face the Quagmire?”

“I am,” Nim heard Erandur’s voice from her mouth, agreeing.

“Then go,” Veren squeezed her shoulder, and Thorek lifted a dangerous looking- _familiar-_ mace into her hands.

“Let nothing stop you,” he commanded. Nim turned on her heels and ran, leaving them behind. She sprinted through the Inner Sanctum, dodging cultist and orc alike. The fighting was thankfully spread out, but the closer she came to the barrier, the thicker the battle was. She wielded the mace like an extension of her arm, bashing invaders out of her way, forging on and leaving men dead and dying behind her. A bloodbath.

Desperation- half her own, half a memory- swelled in her throat. She reached the pull chain at last, her hand- _his hand-_ curling around it. Pulled. She heard a mechanical _click-hiss,_ unfamiliar to her ears but she knew instinctively that the Miasma was released. Watching the purple haze drift from the ceiling and ooze out from vents in the walls, she stood frozen while it crawled closer and closer. _Alive,_ she thought. _It’s alive… I am dead._

Whether it was her own fear or Casimir’s, Nim couldn’t tell them apart any longer. She was not quite in control when she turned to the barrier and fled through it, hearing it seal behind her.

The red haze disappeared. Nim felt sick and dizzy, coughing, falling to her knees in a body that was suddenly her own again. The souls of dragons slammed back into her head with a vengeance, roaring with indignation at their temporary banishment. Through pounding ears, Nim heard Erandur’s voice calling her name. She battled with the Thu’um, suppressing it, swallowing it back down to sit heavy in her chest.

“Nim? _Nimhaneth,_ if you can hear me-”

“I hear you,” she growled. The ground shook with her voice. Erandur drew a sharp breath and fell quiet, pushing a healing potion under her nose. Nim shook her head, sitting back. He flinched when she met his gaze. _“Casimir.”_

Silence. He bowed his head as if in prayer, waiting for her final decision. The barrier was broken, the Miasma was receding. If anybody had survived the Quagmire, they would awaken soon. _Thorek. Veren._ They would _know_ he had abandoned them.

“Nim,” Erandur said at length, quietly. She stared at him with cold eyes, her face hard. “I understand if you want to walk away.”

A nerve in her jaw twitched. She said nothing as she got to her feet, gathered her bow and quiver from where they had fallen. Mechanical in her movements, Nim stepped through the defunct barrier and said over her shoulder; “I’ll finish this for Dawnstar, then we part ways. Understood?”

 _“Yes,”_ he breathed, scrambling to his feet. “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” she muttered, storming ahead with an arrow poised to shoot. _“Fucking Daedra.”_

They continued in silence. Nim cut down those who woke before they blinked into consciousness, the slightest movement drawing her bow. Erandur hung behind and watched her back, careful not to bring her attention his way. Fury rolled off her in waves. He had known the truth wouldn’t go over well when he suggested she use the Torpor.

“Nim,” Erandur said in an undertone, as they approached the Skull’s chamber. “We’re close.”

She nodded stiffly. Pushing her way in first, Nim’s eyes fell on the Skull at once. The power hummed in her head, the dragon souls stirring at the feel of it. The urge to _take it,_ use it, _domination-_ she couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe. A voice wormed its way into her ear, soft and alluring, whispering promises of reward and power if only _you bow to me, Nimhaneth… kneel and obey… I will give you my blessing…_

_“Traitor!”_

Nim recognised Thorek and Veren when they rushed from the shadows. Their eyes were on Erandur, weapons raised. She darted to his side, hanging behind his shoulder with her bow drawn. She steadied an arrow between Thorek’s eyes, silent and still in her determination.

“Thorek! Veren!” Erandur said their names with _relief._ “You’re alive!” Disbelief lowered his guard but they were not so easily swayed, still ready to attack and kill. Nim stayed in Erandur’s shadow, ready to step in at any instant.

“You left us to die, Casimir!” Veren snarled.

“I no longer use that name. I’m Erandur now,” Erandur held up his hands, trying to placate their fury. “Brothers, please-”

“It doesn’t matter what name you go by. It does not change what you have done!” Thorek snarled, and they charged.

Nim stepped in front of Erandur and Shouted; _“FUS-RO!”_ The Thu’um burst from her chest, threw Thorek and Veren head-over-heels towards the barrier around the Skull. They fell limply to the ground, struggling to get up. An arrow buried in each of their hearts before they could.

Nim’s shoulders slumped. Death weighed heavily on her conscience at the best of times; knowing they would have killed her only eased the burden a little. She felt dirty. _Corrupted._ The dragon in her soul sang with delight at the destruction she left in her wake. Erandur was staring at her, open-mouthed, when she turned to look at him. “They would have killed us,” she said bluntly.

He blinked, nodding. “Yes, yes, I… I know. But we were brothers once…” he trailed off, blinking the memories away. His childhood, his teenage years, his entire _youth_ had been spent with Thorek and Veren. Decades without them had softened the connection, the guilt of his betrayal forcing him to deny them for so long.

“Erandur.”

She was still there. Quiet, watching, letting him work through his mind. He cleared his throat and nodded again, avoiding her gaze. He approached the Skull. Slowly, hesitating only once as a long-forgotten voice whispered in his mind.

_She will betray you, Casimir… she wants the Skull for her own. Kill her, strike her down… show your new friend she was a fool to trust you… do this, and I will welcome you back with open arms… Casimir…_

Erandur grit his teeth. _“Never!”_ he snarled. With one last push, bolstered by the love of Mara warming his heart, he threw every shred of magic he had at the Skull. There was a roar like thunder in his ears, his vision blacked out- and when he came to, the Skull was gone. Banished back to Oblivion with the last of Vaermina’s cult, the last of the demons he had left to rot in his past. He turned from the empty podium to see his new friend with a dagger in her hand.

But slowly, Nim put it away. Erandur eyed her warily and realised she was still on edge, poised on her toes to run. “Did she speak to you?” he asked. Nim nodded once. “She did to me, as well. Did she tell you that I would betray you?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Nim replied evenly. Her dagger was sheathed but she still had her hand near it. He wondered if she truly thought she would be a match for him- but realised she hadn’t taken her bow off her back, and he’d seen how fast, how accurate, she was. She had smashed skulls with the rigid spikes on that weapon. She wasn’t threatening. She was defensive.

Erandur stepped toward her. She stepped back. He smiled, hoping she still trusted him. She hadn’t been terribly happy to discover his past. “I’m not going to attack you,” he said calmly.

Nim stared at him. A small smile flickered over her mouth. “I know,” she said. “If I thought that, you’d be dead already.”

They walked out in silence. She didn’t ask for an explanation and he didn’t offer one. In front of Mara’s shrine, Erandur knelt for a quick prayer. Nim seated herself on a pew and when he looked at her, her head was bowed in her own prayers. He was surprised. Sitting near her quietly, he hoped not to disturb her. Nim looked up at once. “Your affiliation,” he said, somewhat apologetically. “Will you take it back?”

“No,” Nim said quickly. “My soul is my own. What will you do now?”

He said he’d stay. Clean up. Serve his penance. Nim looked unconvinced at leaving him but eventually did, vaguely promising to ‘stop by’ and ‘check in on him’ if she was ever in the area. Erandur thanked her- again- and she walked away into the snow.

 


	11. Ancano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancano x Breton Oc, Emalyn.  
> Pining, anxiety, confessions,  
> size difference, kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo. Ancano always fascinated me on my playthroughs, and I still wish he had some sort of redemption. His arc in-game seems pretty unsatisfying.

There was nothing for it. Nothing left to deny, nothing left to say, nothing to defend. Her stomach wound up in knots, her fingers wrung so tightly she was sure they’d be bruised. Her feet had paced a track in the stone floors, though that might just be her imagination.

Every shuffle, every movement, every tiny little sound from outside the closed doors made her jump. It could be him, it could be nothing. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird, desperate for freedom. The anxiety and dread curling in her stomach could easily be mistaken for nausea; if he made her wait any longer, she might truly be sick. Brown eyes shot to the door as something collided softly with the outside. A moment or two of silence, then she was back to pacing the inside of her room. It wasn’t big enough. Three strides and she’d completed a length, six and she’d done a circuit. She wanted to get out and pace around the Aspect, but it was too open, too exposed, too close to _him._

A knock made her start so violently she tripped over her own feet. Just barely catching herself on the side of the bed, she hurriedly fixed her robes and tried to flatten the unruly flyaway hairs, however unsuccessfully. A proclivity to shock magic meant she was constantly battling with frizz.

“Open the door, Emalyn.”

All at once she wanted to dive under her covers and pretend she wasn’t there. Regret clawed up her throat in a strangle hold and the terrible, twisting feeling of _wrong_ refused to let her breathe a full breath.

“Emalyn,” he said again, louder, firmer, with another knock that said he wasn’t remotely playing around. She might have been given a miraculous amount of leeway when it came to him, but the dark tone he spoke with said he was not amused.

Oh Gods.

She was dead. She was _so dead._

Plastering on a smile she didn’t feel, Emalyn cracked open the door. The faint hum of a ward spell lit up her left hand, hidden behind her back. Ancano shouldered his way through the door without so much as a hello, forcing her to step back and put some distance between them.

“Um. Hi?” she said, waving her fingers at him.

His face, utterly unreadable, gave her chills right down to her daedra-damned soul. Slowly, Ancano reached into his pocket and withdrew a letter. The familiar parchment stood out against the black leather of his robes and Emalyn suddenly wanted to set it on fire. She wondered how far she’d get before he hunted her down.

“Would you care to explain _this,”_ he said, the disgust in his voice curdling her stomach. She wanted to cry but refused to give him the satisfaction. He was trying to get a reaction. Emalyn was prouder than to give him one. With a lazy flick of his wrist, Ancano flung the letter onto her bed. “What is the meaning of this _atrocity?”_

“I… um…”

“Well?!” he demanded, his yellow eyes narrowed in rage. In two strides he was across the room and she was backed up against the bookcases, scrambling for an excuse. “I know I have allowed you certain liberties in the past, Breton, but don’t for a moment think you are above reproach,” Ancano’s voice had lowered to a hiss, a furious whisper that she _shouldn’t_ find attractive.

He was rage and danger and Emalyn realised that there was something terribly wrong with her self-preservation instincts. The last thing on her mind was running away. “Ancano,” she choked out, whirling thoughts desperately trying to arrange themselves into something coherent. Uncharacteristically, he waited while she sifted through it; though he didn’t move away and still loomed over her, so close she could feel the heat from his body. “I… I’m sorry,” Emalyn settled on saying, regretting it when his eyes flashed with unexpected hurt.

“So, it is false?” he said, bitterly. Her eyes moved to the letter then back to his face, watching his expression turn blank as he stepped away from her. “How _dare_ you present me with such foul trickery!”

“It’s not a trick,” she said, swallowing hard as his eyes pinned her to the bookcases. “I didn’t know how else to say… I couldn’t stand the thought of facing you and seeing rejection. I thought this would be easier for both of us. If you didn’t… if you don’t return the feelings then you could just ignore the letter and we could pretend it was never written and I would go, like I wrote, I would remove myself from Winterhold and nobody would need to know.” She was babbling, she was aware, the words spilling out of her as the tears began to burn in her eyes. The letter had been written after hours of agonising over the words, careful to include _everything_ so could take the coward’s route and not have to face him.

“Emalyn,” Ancano whispered. He moved painfully slowly back towards her, his hands ghosting up the length of her body until they framed her face- not touching but hovering over her skin. “You were sincere?”

“Of course!” she said, her tone sharp. “Every word.”

The words sank in far too slowly for her liking, but she _loved_ the way his face softened when she glanced up at him, her eyes meeting his. Ancano touched her, _finally,_ his hands stroking the hair back from her face, leaning in until his nose brushed against hers. Emalyn had never been more aware of how much bigger he was, his body towering over her.

“This doesn’t feel like rejection,” she whispered, unable to stop the words passing her lips. As he needed the assurance, so did she.

Ancano let out a sharp breath, tilting her head up so she couldn’t avoid his stare. “Rejecting you would make me a fool of the highest order. Let Auri-El strike me down before such words ever pass my lips.”

She froze in place when he kissed her, unusually tender, soft. Like he was testing her still, trying to catch her in a lie and confirm his fears. The kiss was over before she regained her senses, a feeling of loss tugging in her heart.

“You were right about one thing, however.” Ancano pulled away, his voice a strained, low rumble. “Nobody can ever know. If we were discovered…”

Emalyn nodded frantically, craning up on tiptoes to chase his mouth. The heat and intensity of _craving_ in her gut surprised her; however long she had pined after his affection, it boiled down to nothing in the face of the rising desire. “Don’t worry, Advisor,” she said, her hands sweeping up the length of his chest to hook behind his head. “I don’t intend to share.”

Ancano’s face broke into a smile and she swore he laughed, the sound swallowed up by a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep this story PG which is probably the only reason this didn't devolve into shameless smut.  
> Maybe I'll do another story with those bits, because damn these Thalmor are delicious.


	12. NSFW Ancano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely NSFW.  
> Kissing, oral sex, cunnilingus,  
> orgasms, slight dirty talk,  
> magic play, and sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of Ancano's chapter (because continuations are a thing now). Did I mention that this chapter is a sex scene? Feel free to skip if it's not your cup of tea. When people say 'fuck the Thalmor' I'm sure this isn't QUITE what they mean.

Ancano’s face broke into a smile and she swore he laughed, the sound swallowed up by a kiss. The tenderness was gone this time, replaced by something deeper, something carnal. Emalyn pushed up on tiptoes and Ancano bent over her, his hands stroking down the length of her body. He wrapped his long fingers around her thighs and lifted her up, pinning her against the wall. His hips ground against hers, his mouth sliding from hers and leaving a path of wet heat across her jaw, her collar.

Emalyn threw her head back, thanking Dibella under her breath, wrapping her legs around his waist. She could feel him against her, hot and half-hard, his hands splayed underneath her thighs. Ancano licked his way across her throat, the scrape of teeth pulling the most enticing of gasps from her mouth, her legs shuddering with the effort of staying still. Her hands detangled from his hair, framing his face and pulling his mouth back to hers. Ancano didn’t hold back. His tongue pressed inside in short little thrusts, fucking her mouth. Emalyn’s stomach clenched, her heart racing; she moved her hands to his shoulders and pushed beneath his robes, desperate to feel skin.

Only breathing pulled them apart, far enough to gasp in air before he was kissing her again. Ancano stepped back from the wall, his arms quickly encircling her waist. Emalyn squeaked in shock as she was carried the two steps to the bed, her head spinning. Ancano dropped her on it unceremoniously, though he quickly followed. The length of his body brushed along hers, his hands pulling her knees apart, so he could lay between them.

He stopped then, his blazing eyes meeting hers. Emalyn licked her kiss-swollen lips, stroking her fingertips across his cheek. He turned his head into her touch, nuzzling against her palm. “Ancano?” she murmured.

Ancano’s eyes flicked to hers, darkened with desire. “You are exquisite,” he whispered.

Emalyn’s face flushed even darker and she gave a little laugh. “We haven’t properly started yet,” she said, her tone lightening into the one she often teased him with. “Aren’t you supposed to get sappy _afterwards?”_

“Don’t be difficult,” Ancano snapped, but the effect was lessened somewhat by the crooked grin stealing across his face. “Take the damn compliment, you insufferable little witch.”

“And if I refuse?” Emalyn couldn’t resist pushing her luck or rolling her hips up to meet his. Ancano groaned and seized her hip, stilling her.

He touched his brow to hers, their breath warming the minute space between their mouths. “Then I’d be forced to act,” he whispered, the drop of his voice sending her heart into a staccato pulse. “I’d be forced to _show_ you, over and over, until you beg me to stop.” Ancano propped himself up above her, one hand trailing over her clothed chest to expertly untie the belt of her robes. Emalyn gasped at the touch of cold air hitting her exposed skin, though the chill of it barely had time to settle before he was lavishing attention to every inch of her.

Frost spells clung to his fingers, the icy touch followed by the wet heat of his mouth. Ancano gathered her wrists in one of his hands, pressing them into the pillows above her head. Emalyn shivered and arched her back, keening for more of his touch, her heels driving into the mattress to push her trembling hips up, desperate for friction and _more._

Ancano worshipped his way down her body. Drawing out the descent until she shivered and writhed, almost sobbing his name, the muscles of her arms screaming with the effort of struggling against his strength. He released her if only to have two hands free to pull off her underwear, allowing himself a laugh when she vehemently kicked them aside. He met her eyes as he stroked his prize, lowering his face to her core.

“Exquisite,” he murmured, loud enough for her to hear, and licked his way between her folds. Emalyn threw her head back against the pillow, gasping for breath, her fingernails scraping through his hair. Months of envisioning this couldn't prepare her for how soft it was, how good it felt in her hands, how quickly and intensely her body would respond to him.

Ancano murmured his approval, his voice vibrating around her clit. Emalyn whined at the feel of his tongue, the lazy strokes turning into probing thrusts. _“Gods yes,_ Ancano- just like that, _Dibella_ help me,” she moaned. He splayed his fingers over her lower stomach, keeping her still even as the high of climax crashed into her. She rocked her hips against his face and he held her down, one hand splayed on her stomach.  Emalyn writhed and pressed her head back into the pillow, his name turning into a garbled mess of curses under her breath.

"Good girl," Ancano murmured. "Say my name.”

"Yes, Ancano yes, oh gods please don't stop..."

He had no intention. She was so far gone in ecstasy that she didn’t notice when he slipped a finger inside her, then two. The fullness and the stretch drove her higher and she arched her back, mouth open, eyes screwed shut as her body pulsed with pleasure. Ancano drank in the sight, grinding his cock against the bed to relieve some of the tension.

By the Eight, he had imagined what she'd look like in orgasm, but his mind could never envision something so spectacular.

He crawled over her, crashing his mouth to hers. Teeth clicked, lips were bitten, and Emalyn yanked at his clothes. The Thalmor uniform was carelessly tossed to the floor. She wasted no time in hooking a leg over his hips, raking her nails down his chest and _loving_ the way his muscles jumped in response. Ancano’s head tilted back and Emalyn yanked his shoulders, quickly pushing him down as she swung herself on top.

 _“What_ are you doing?” he blurted.

“You’ll see,” Emalyn whispered, a wicked gleam in her eyes. Ancano barely had time to realise where she was headed before her hands were in his smalls, wrapping around his length, tugging him free. She kept his gaze captive as she wrapped her lips around him and _sucked._ His eyes slammed shut and he thrusted up against her, feeling a pang of guilt when she gagged and pinched his thigh. Garbled thoughts made garbled words; an apology, a plea, praise, he couldn’t tell where one word ended and the next began.

The beginnings of climax built in his body, shuddering waves of electrified pleasure. Ancano pushed his fingers into her hair and pulled, tugging insistently until she sat up. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Emalyn looked all too pleased with herself. Glazed eyes stared at her. He had no words, only a breathless smile as he led her up to kiss him.

Emalyn rolled her hips, her core wet and hot as she worked it over his length. Ancano groaned into her mouth, grinding up against her. “Ride me,” he muttered. She reached between them to guide him, sinking down until he was fully inside her. Emalyn’s mouth fell open, her eyes fluttering closed, her fingers splayed over his chest as she adjusted to his size. Ancano stroked his hands up her thighs in a light massage, forcing himself to stay still. As much as he wanted to flip them over and fuck her into the mattress, he’d let her play at control just this once.

At last she began to move. Emalyn’s nails dug crescents into his chest, her hips bouncing above his. Ancano gathered a swinging breast in each hand, rolling her nipple between his fingers. Her little gasp of his name went straight to his cock, his body tightening in response to hers.

He wouldn’t last long. He hadn’t been with anybody in over a decade, deprived for so long and she was divine around him, his senses so full of her that the world could have turned on its axis, Ancano would barely have noticed. Emalyn moved with abandon, her head bowed so she could watch his cock driving into her with every thrust. Their hips met with a harsh slap, the sound followed only by heavy breathing and the half-uttered curses spilling from both.

Her rhythm broke and she gripped his shoulders, her breath stuttering in her mouth. Emalyn slipped a hand between them, fingering her clit until she came apart around him, writhing, her body turning rigid as her back curved. She threw her gaze to the ceiling with a short cry, mouth open, eyes shut as her climax washed over her. Ancano took hold of her hips, pushing himself up into her harder, faster, chasing his own release. It didn’t take long to find him, and he buried himself inside her.

They lay together afterward. He was warmer than he could ever remember being, happier still than in any of his memories. Emalyn lay curled against his side, stroking mindless patterns on his chest, her mind blissfully blank. They knew that outside these walls, nothing could ever be seen to pass between them. But wrapped up in arms and blankets, the sweat drying on their skin and the trembling aftershocks of sex lingering in their bodies, they could pretend that all was right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't posted anything like this before so feel free to nitpick the hell out of it!


	13. Ondolemar (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Descriptions of injuries, threats,  
> slight Ondolemar!whump (not sorry),  
> near execution, a couple swears.  
> Reference to Florence Kasumba.  
> I don't own the line but it's bad-ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronologically, this happens *before* the first oneshot. It's part of the same universe, same Bosmer Dragonborn. Only this time it's Ondolemar who's hurt, and Syrene doing the saving!

She hadn’t wanted to say anything in front of Elenwen or anyone else, but she needs to be certain. Syrene takes Ulfric aside, pulling him into the shadows of an alcove in High Hrothgar. Markarth for Riften; it had been the deal nobody wanted to make, but in the name of the Dragonborn it had been done. All she wants now is to hear the Jarl vow that he’ll leave Ondolemar alive; let him leave Markarth when the time comes.

“I can make no such promise,” Ulfric tells her without regrets, a little smug as he folds his arms and stares down the Bosmer. “My men have already begun their siege.”

“You  _what,”_ she says, flat and furious.

He shrugs. “I attended this ridiculous farce with the intention of winning Markarth, but had you proved to be an Imperial puppet, I instructed my best lieutenants to siege the city. No orders will reach them in time now, Dragonborn.”

She is deathly still. “And what orders did you give?” she asks. Ulfric, for the first time, feels a trickle of fear. Her eyes are hard, her voice is cold, and she’s fingering an ebony arrow like she might want to wedge it in his throat.

Still, Ulfric is nothing if not proud. “They will take Markarth by any means necessary. If a few Imperial sympathisers and Thalmor dogs end up dead… well, one less problem to worry about.”

_Dead._ Syrene shoves him up against the wall, dagger at his throat. “If he is dead, I will return for your life in recompense,” she hisses, and leaves him staring after her in fearful respect.

She makes a beeline for Markarth. Arrives as the siege is over, Markarth is Stormcloak territory; and they’ve set up gallows in front of the city gates. Two bodies already swing from the rope. Syrene feels sick when she recognises Ondolemar’s guards. They hadn’t deserved this fate, she thinks, her heart sinking. She slips through the crowd unnoticed, finding a ledge with a decent view.

The show begins. They march Ondolemar out; bound, gagged, beaten. He looks like shit. Like he’s been dragged through Oblivion.  _"Fucking_   _hell_ ,"Syrene swears.They’ve only had Markarth for two days and they’ve not made it easy for him. Her heart drops but she waits. Bides her time. Pulls her ivory white bow from her back. She readies an arrow.

The show is short. They do not want to prolong it now that they've got a crowd baying for Thalmor blood; all the hatred seethes from the people of Markarth, gathered to watch the Justiciar die. Syrene can't take her eyes off of him. He cannot see her; he doesn't look up, though she can picture the grim determination on his face. Ondolemar will die as an Altmer should, proud and unaffected by the common rabble. He doesn't bow for the rope. They have to strike him to get him to bend and Syrene wants to jump to his defense. She doesn't. She swallows the fury and feels it like fire in her heart, the souls of dragons murmuring their encouragement in the back of her mind. Death and blood and glory; they can sense her simmering fury and fuel it with their own.

The hangman pulls the lever. Syrene stands as Ondolemar drops, noose around his neck, and as the rope snaps straight it’s severed by an arrow. The ebony arrow lands firmly against the gallows, quivering in the wood, and Ondolemar lands in a heap beneath the trap door. There’s panic and confusion and suddenly a voice above the panicking crowd;  _“FEIM ZII!”_

Syrene, ethereal, glowing, running  _through_ people like a ghost. The Stormcloaks who rushed to recapture Ondolemar stop and stare, the word ‘Dragonborn’ fluttering through their lips. Her next shout knocks them all flying away from him; Ondolemar wonders at her accuracy, how she managed to keep the power from touching him. She regains a corporeal form and lifts her bow, aiming an arrow between the eyes of a man lifting a sword to kill Ondolemar. “Move to strike and I’ll see what you look like with a third eye,” she snarls. Nobody moves. Her gaze turns to him. “Can you stand?” she asks. He nods and does so, slowly, agonising over every movement. Syrene lowers her bow and wraps an arm around him, supporting him when his momentary strength begins to lag. Her face twists with heartbreak now that she gets a close look at what they’ve done to him. He feels the heat of a healing spell, as weak as it is, and smiles to himself. She didn't use magic for just anyone.

“Lady Dragonborn,” a Stormcloak steps forward, braver than the rest, blocking their way. “We have orders…”

“Your orders are rescinded,” she snaps. They’re braver now that she’s not aiming a weapon at them, but her bow isn’t the only thing she carries to fight with. They've tasted her Voice and none are brave enough to openly challenge her for more. “Move,” she says, to the crowd. “Or you will be moved." The crowd parts. Two soldiers linger and Syrene Shouts, once again, sending a blast of ice and power their way. They dive to avoid it and she hurries through the corridor, to a carriage.

She is silent as she pushes him into a carriage and they start driving for Whiterun- the driver seemed to know her, he offers a small smile and doesn’t charge her coin. He’d been  _waiting,_ Ondolemar realises, waiting for her to return so he could carry her away. Carry  _them_ away. She’s come to Markarth for one thing worth saving and Ondolemar realises it's him.  _Her home, her possessions, the collections of little treasures- she cares for none of it, the only thing she wished to take from Markarth was_ ** _him_** _._  Syrene is crying silently as she undoes his binds, ungags him. Every cut, every bruise, every new scar, she catalogues these with her eyes and with gentle touches she doesn’t seem to be controlling; every single one breaks her heart just a little bit more. She heals him mechanically, magic and alchemy combined. It's not enough to heal the deepest hurts but it does soothe the ache and lessen the sting of open wounds.

When she is done, they sit in silence as the carriage rolls on. Neither knows what to say. Apologies and explanations flutter in her mind but Syrene can't pick just one. The lump in her throat gets in the way. So she sits and stares and catalogues the changes in him since she last saw him. Ondolemar does much of the same. He can’t take his eyes off her. He hasn't seen her in months, since she left him at Elenwen's reception. He has searched, though he will never admit it. Had spent more time lurking outside Vlindrel Hall than pacing Understone Keep; he had paid the beggers to watch for signs of her return. Ondolemar is far too proud to admit that he's missed her, but the jump and flutter of his heart says it for him.

It’s almost dark when they stop in Rorikstead. Syrene wanders off to get a room at the inn and sneaks him in through the back door. Nobody sees them but for the innkeeper, who is wise enough to pretend he doesn't. Ondolemar lays on the bed and she brings him food and a bottle of the local vintage. It's passable, but he isn't thinking about the wine. “Why, Syrene?” He’s talking about Markarth and about the Embassy.

She meets his eye, touches his face. “Isn’t that obvious?” she says. He remains passive and blank, staring at her for an answer. “I… I’d rather you spend the next thousand years hating me than face a world without you in it.”

Ondolemar cups her face. It’s a tender touch that makes her sigh and lean into him, her eyes closed. She never thought to lay eyes on him again, much less be greeted with such outward affection. “You could have told me,” he murmurs, thumb stroking over her high cheekbones

She shakes her head. “There’s a bounty on my head, you know that,” she says. “I couldn’t put you in that situation.”

“You didn’t trust me,” he surmises.

“No,” she confirms. “Can you blame me? You’re the  _Commander_  of the Justiciars _._ If anyone would run to Elenwen with my identity I would have picked you.”

“But not anymore.” He picks up on the tense she uses.

Syrene smiles softly. “You said nothing of what happened at the Embassy.”

“Ah yes. _That._ I find myself unable to forget it.” His mouth twists in a wry grin.

She stifles a laugh. He smiles back and she wonders why he doesn’t seem angry, why he’s almost flirting, why he’s holding her hand and why she’s ever so slightly leaning closer. “I am truly sorry for that, Ondolemar.”

He lifts a brow. “Please tell me you’re sorry for the paralysis and not the sex.”

Syrene  _does_ laugh then, sudden and unexpected. “Definitely the paralysis,” she says. Then turns thoughtful. “But I did trick you, Ondolemar. I don’t expect you to forgive me for what I did, but I want you to know that I am truly sorry.”

He shakes his head. “I just wish you hadn’t left so quickly,” he says. “If you needed information I could have taken you right to it. Sneaking unnecessary.”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t want you involved. At all.”

“It’s rather too late for that, don’t you think?” he replies, and gently takes her hand. As he presses a kiss to her palm, he meets her eyes and says without a hint of hesitation; "I am yours, Syrene, if you will have me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody want to know what happened at the Embassy? ;)
> 
> *Note to self: Don't edit stories in the AO3 window because it flags all my Aussie spelling/grammer as wrong and my perfectionist arse freaks out*


	14. Vilkas & Farkas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGERS: domestic violence, mentions of violence,  
> spousal abuse, near-death, indications of PTSD,  
> Nothing too graphic but this deals almost exclusively with that subject  
> Farkas & NordOC Ingrid *FRIENDSHIP*  
> Slight Vilkas/Ingrid at the end, if you squint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farkas & Ingrid, friendship  
> Vilkas & Ingrid, implied future relationship  
> Again, there are mentions of domestic violence  
> Nothing detailed but the subject is discussed

“Farkas,” Ingrid called across Jorrvaskr’s main hall. She stood rigid, fists clenched against her thighs to disguise the trembling. “May I have a word?”

Farkas looked between Skjor and Aela, eyebrow raised to ask for a clue. Neither could give him one aside from a shrug and a reassuring pat on the back as he slowly stood up. Farkas had learned quickly that moving fast around the newest whelp was a bad idea. She had never reacted _well_ to his presence, but she reacted worse to his movements. Farkas had travelled enough to guess at why.

Ingrid shrank as he approached, her eyes darting to seek an escape. He stopped three feet away, hands loose and held away from his weapons in a stance he hoped conveyed ‘harmless’. Not that anything Farkas did could be classified as harmless. Ingrid seemed to catch herself, her mouth turning to a thin line and her shoulders squaring. “This way,” she said firmly. And much softer, followed with; “Please?”

“Of course,” Farkas said lowly. She smiled at him and turned on her heel. He waited to give her space before following her through the door and onto the back porch. Ingrid kept her back to him, but she walked almost on tiptoes, ready to spring away if she felt the need. Farkas was careful to scuff his feet, sniff, cough- anything he could do to give her audible knowledge of where he was.

Ingrid led him towards the Underforge, stopping just outside the hidden door. Farkas walked to the wall and leaned back against it, trying his hardest to be non-threatening. Sheer size meant that was a task and a half, but Ingrid’s hands stopped trembling and she steeled herself before she began to talk. “I owe you an explanation,” she said. It was that same resolute tone of voice that screamed her discomfort, but also her determination to see this through.

“No you don’t,” Farkas replied. It was an out if she wanted it. Though he suspected Ingrid was made of sterner stuff than she let on. “I know I can be… intimidating.”

“I’d say fucking terrifying, but yes,” she responded frankly and Farkas huffed a laugh. His reaction seemed to calm her a little, though her shoulders never lost that tight tension keeping them straight. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Farkas blinked. Whatever she had dragged him out here for, an apology was not it. He was expecting a ‘we can’t work together’ or even a ‘I’m leaving’. Not an _apology._ “What?” he blurted.

Ingrid smiled, her head lowering with shame. “For treating you with distrust you don’t deserve,” she said. “I misjudged you gravely when we first met. My unease led me to giving you attributes that I have come to realise aren’t yours at all. I’d like to tell you why, if you’d let me.”

He was quiet for a minute, just looking at her. Ingrid shifted awkwardly under his stare, but the fear had retreated right down. It was still bubbling away- he could see her still ready to run at a moment’s notice, like a bird poised to fly. But there was a steel in her that hadn’t been there before. “If you wish to tell me,” Farkas said carefully. “I would be honoured to listen.”

Ingrid’s smile was genuine. Her shoulders relaxed, and she turned to lean against the wall beside him. She took a moment or two to gather her thoughts before she began to speak, her voice a quiet monotone. Rehearsed, but truthful. “There are experiences in my life that have left me with a subconscious fear of… no. That’s not… when I was younger,” Ingrid stopped, struggling with the memories.

“Take your time,” Farkas said as gently as he could manage.

Ingrid nodded sheepishly. “My parents were keen to see me marry well. They chose a suitor who is… _was._ Was very similar in stature to you. He was what I thought love was supposed to be, I even agreed to marry him. He was a lovely man right up until he wasn’t. The first time he hit me,” Ingrid stopped again, her voice failing. Farkas closed his eyes, picturing someone like Ingrid standing up against someone his size. He was two feet taller and had at least a hundred pounds of muscle more than her. While it wasn’t uncommon for marriages to hide such darkness, the image made his stomach turn. “He hit me because he’d seen me talking to another man in the market. When I tried to explain it was the butcher, it only made him angrier. The next day he came home with flowers and chocolates and promises that it wouldn’t happen again. Like a fool, I believed him.”

“It happened again,” Farkas finished the story, knowing the pattern. Men like _that_ didn’t change with a few apologies and tears.

“And again, and again, right up until he dragged me out of the city and nearly killed me,” Ingrid’s mouth curved into a smile. Her eyes remained blank and glassy, though she wasn’t crying. “If it weren’t for a travelling priest of Mara, I likely would have died. The priest saved me, healed me, and let me travel with him. At first, I had bad days every day. I couldn’t function if a man so much as raised his voice in the same room. I had nightmares… it took years for me to realise that suddenly, my bad days weren’t as often. Eventually I couldn’t remember my last one. I wasn’t better, I’m still not better, because seeing you… sometimes I see you and I see _him.”_

Farkas stayed silent. Ingrid raised her eyes from her feet, embarrassment making her shrink even smaller. She looked mortified at how much she’d divulged, her cheeks burning red and her eyes darting to the door. The trembling was back. “Ingrid,” Farkas said her name before she could run. “I am honoured that you shared this with me. Your apologies are not necessary. I know what it’s like to live with demons and I’m sorry that I resemble one of yours.”

“Can’t help genetics,” she quipped weakly. Ingrid took a deep breath, a genuine smile flittering across her face and disappearing again. She met and held Farkas’s gaze, before sticking her hand out to him. “Thank you for letting me talk.”

Farkas shook her hand briefly. “Take care of yourself,” his voice was as warm as melted butter, genuine and kind. Ingrid watched him leave and let out a long breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. A certain pressure lifted from her chest, leaving her lighter than she’d felt since she’d first set foot in Jorrvaskr. Ingrid turned to the breeze picking up from the east, smiling into it as it toyed with the hair on her face.

She didn’t turn when the back door opened. Not even when someone lingered behind her for a moment, eyes locked on the back of her head. He cleared his throat before stepping up beside her.

“Everything alright?” Vilkas asked quietly. “I’ve been looking for you. Skjor said you’d gone off with Farkas and… you’re alright, aren’t you?”

Ingrid moved a little closer, tilting her head until she could lean against his shoulder. Vilkas shifted to cover her both her hands with one of his. “I’m alright, Vilkas. Very alright,” she said with a smile. He squeezed her hands gently, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... life has intervened to seriously kick my arse this last month. Between family birthdays, family dramas, work becoming insanely busy, and house-sitting with no wifi, I've been left with very little time to do anything but fall in bed and sleep.
> 
> That being said, thanks to all those who have read/kudo'd/commented in the last month, it's hugely appreciated.
> 
> *A new Ondolemar oneshot will be up within the next week, dealing with the events at the Embassy.*


	15. Ondolemar (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ondolemar x Syrene  
> Non-explicit sex scenes,  
> Drugging, betrayal,  
> angsty thoughts.  
> What happened between them at the Embassy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I'm home from house sitting and things are calming down a little... hopefully.  
> I work retail so this time of year is starting to get mad, and by December I'll probably be radio silent for a while.  
> Thanks for sticking with it!

Syrene feels time ticking away. Faking sick had gotten her past the blind Khajiit in the kitchens, but Malborn had lost the battle of wills against Ondolemar. Swooping in like some golden prince ripped right out of a children’s story, scooping her into his side and dismissing Malborn with a wave, Ondolemar had wasted no time in tending to Syrene’s imaginary ills.

Her heart squeezes with guilt because now she’s dragged him into it, and she had cursed the Gods who put him at Elenwen’s stupid party. She’d wanted to keep the shithole of her life away from Ondolemar, to protect him as best she could.

“Who’s bedroom is this?” she asks, fingering the fine sheets. She’s never felt anything quite so soft before.

Ondolemar kneels in front of her. He’s holding out a cure-all potion, looking so sincere and concerned that she wants to kiss him. Or cry. Probably both. “Mine,” he says, with a gentle smile at the flicker of surprise. “Or at least, it is the one I am allowed for this charade.”

“I see,” Syrene says. Casting about for a new topic, feeling awkward; it’s never been awkward, in Markarth they could talk and flirt and banter, but in the Embassy the stakes are so much higher that it’s killing her to look at him. “What’s in this?” she asks, and his brow furrows.

“Hawk feathers and skeever hide,” he says, slowly. “It’s safe for you.” She looks at him, surprised, and there’s a faint colouring on his cheeks. “You follow the Green Pact, do you not? I assumed…”

“You assumed correctly,” Syrene assures him, her smile more genuine than she wants it to be. His thoughtfulness will be her undoing; what she is about to do might backfire horribly, she prays he won’t be caught in the crossfire. “I’m just… people don’t usually think about that when it comes to me.”

Ondolemar lowers his head. “I do,” he admits. A pause, in which he notices she doesn’t drink the potion, and then he says; “I also think you’re hiding something from me.”

She flinches as if he’d struck her. The hurt in his eyes confirms it; he knows she’s up to something, and she’s just told him exactly that. Some spy she’s turned out to be. “Ondolemar…” she says, and he clenches his fists. He’s still knelt before her, his head bowed over her lap, and Syrene feels _dirty_ as she tilts his head up and offers him the tiny, seductive smile she knows he’ll fall for. “How else was I supposed to get you alone?” she whispers.

He blinks at her. Realisation trickles into his mind and he exhales slowly, shaking his head. “You play a dangerous game, Syrene.”

“I know,” she says, her fingers walking beneath the neck of his robes. “But I didn’t expect to see you here. And when I did, I knew I couldn’t just _approach_ you, but I so hoped you’d follow me out…” _Liar,_ her mind screams, the guilt eating her alive. Ondolemar falls for it and that’s what she wanted, him to forget she’d been sneaking away and fall into the illusion she’s weaving for him.

“And now we’re alone,” he says, musing on it.

Syrene leans in, teasing a kiss, leaving the next move up to him. “And now we’re alone,” she whispers.

She barely finishes before he’s kissing her, a domineering force pushing her back onto the bed. Ondolemar kneels between her knees, pushing the emerald-green dress up above her waist. Her nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on his robes; she’s undressed him enough to know this pattern by heart. Syrene can’t shake how guilty she feels but she knows she needs him to not suspect her.

He surprises her when he crawls off the bed, pulling her dishevelled self after him. “Fantasy,” he explains shortly, lifting her against the wall. There’s a rail meant for clothes and Syrene grabs hold of it in one hand, her other arm stretched above her head as he wriggles his way between her legs. Spread-eagled against the wall, pinned by his hips and his mouth, Syrene is completely at his mercy. It’s hot and dirty and they fuck against the wall; she clings to his shoulders, sucking bruises into his neck and uttering his name in broken little sobs.

Afterwards, they’re straightening themselves out and Syrene pulls a vial of a potion from a hidden pocket. Ondolemar isn’t stupid and won’t drink it if she offers, so she coats her lips and pulls him down for a kiss. Her natural resistance to poison means it doesn’t affect her, but it takes him. The effect is almost instant. He goes rigid, paralysed, and she barely manages to lower him onto the bed.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her forehead against his, eyes closed against the burning rage she can see in his frozen eyes. “I’m so sorry. I wish I had time to explain but I don’t. I can’t have you following me either. I’m so sorry, Ondolemar.”

She tips the rest of the potion into his mouth, and she watches the rage turn to betrayal. She feels like dirt as she hurries through the mission; the potion will last only a few minutes, then he’ll raise the alarm, the Embassy will be on alert, and she’ll have a hell of a time getting out.

Syrene is shocked when there is not an alarm. Nothing until two guards bring Malborn to the torture room; she escapes with him, Etienne, and the dossiers, racing through a frozen forest to Delphine. No pursuit. No alarms.

Ondolemar had said nothing. Syrene wonders if it’s embarrassment; he didn’t want to admit to sneaking off and being tricked by a pretty face and the promise of a good fuck. Syrene wishes she hadn’t let him have her, but the selfish part of her says she’d had one last tryst because he’ll never let her touch him again.

She knew the relationship was doomed from the start; Syrene surprises herself with how much losing Ondolemar _hurts._ Still, it’s better than dying as her friend. People close to her end up dead; she’d learned that the hard way, over and over, enough to make her realise she _can’t_ have nice things. She’d take losing his favour any day, because at least he’s still alive to hate her.

 


	16. Revyn Sadri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revyn Sadri x Dunmer OC, Naldyne Morayne.  
> Flirting, established relationship, explicitly implied sex,  
> descriptions of injuries, marriage proposals,  
> blood, slight gore, all the good stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a thing for elves. I don't know if that's obvious but it's a thing, I promise you.

Revyn sifted through the bag of Dwemer cutlery with expert hands. It wasn’t a particularly good haul and he’d be lucky to sell the lot to cover his meals for the week. At first, the little trinkets had been novelties. Wealthy locals had snatched them up by the dozen and put them on display, bragging about the dangers not-fought to get them. He’d sold nothing but Dwemer junk for weeks- in the beginning.

Now, supply outweighed demand. He couldn't give them away. Of course, the blacksmith still took most of the better-quality metal to melt down. Even that was getting old. Revyn was resorting to trading with the Khajiit, and even they were growing tired of his trying to wheedle cash for scrap from them.

But he still took every single one.

The potential dive his bottom line took was worth it to see the culprit. Naldyne Morayne, explorer extraordinaire, itinerant irritant, and the single living relic of Revyn’s life before Windhelm, had turned his shop from a general goods to a treasure-hunter’s dream. Calixto wept to behold the treasures Naldyne dragged across Skyrim just to sell them for pittance in the shop.

Naldyne was currently picking her way through the thin shelf of potions. Revyn half watched her more than he took any real notice of what was in the bag. She’d already shed her travel clothes for a comfortable dress, her black hair loose and falling straight down her back. As impressive as she looked in full ebony armour, Revyn much preferred her like this. Casual, softer, relaxed; a face she only showed to him. The privilege was as intoxicating as sujamma.

He cleared his throat before he spoke, making sure she heard the tease in his tone. "You know there are a dozen traders between here and the Reach?"

A winning smile was sent his way, complete with batting eyelashes. Naldyne blew him a kiss across the store. “You’re my one and only.”

He rolled his eyes.

"Come on," she groaned. "Not even a smile? Tough crowd."

Revyn slid the bag of cutlery under his counter. "I can offer a coin a dozen."

"You're a hard man to please, Sadri."

“I can’t sell it for more than that anymore. Nobody is buying,” he countered, ignoring the pleading look on her face. Money wasn’t her aim. Even when they had nothing but the clothes on their backs and the ash in their lungs, Naldyne had been more interested in the _game_ of bartering than in any physical prize.

She pouted and hopped up onto the counter.

"There's a walkway, Naldyne," he said, pointing. Naldyne's crimson eyes were crinkled with mischief. She flicked her fingers toward the door, the lock clicking in place. “You’ve been practising.”

She nodded, pleased at the unspoken praise. “Just a few useful spells,” she beamed. Swinging her legs over, she pulled him by the collar to stand between her knees. "Want to see what else I've learned?"

"I serve customers in this room, you know." Revyn’s hands settled on the counter beside her hips. It was a token protest and they both knew it.

She laughed, fingers scratching lightly beneath his collar. "Then let’s give it some more pleasant memories."

Revyn scoffed. "What could be more pleasant than the discerning people of Windhelm?"

"Shut up," she mumbled. Revyn went to her with sparkling eyes and a wicked grin. Naldyne kissed him eagerly. With all the energy of a woman who had been away from home far too long. Her hands pushed aside his shirt to feel his chest, and he couldn't help the groan when she slipped her hands beneath the waist of his trousers. Just as eager, he touched everywhere he could reach, delighted to find what made her gasp and sigh, her little noises in his ear being his undoing.

Sadri’s Used Goods opened late in the morning.

-[-]-

Naldyne was good at hello. She was terrible at goodbye. Revyn was somehow not surprised when she up and disappeared a few days after arriving. Some whispers of adventure, a tale of treasures, and she would be off on the trail like a bloodhound on a scent. This was the way of life. He hated to admit to being excited by the unpredictability of it all.

Revyn’s life was marked not by the change of the weather but by Naldyne and No-Naldyne. It was rather pathetic if he thought on it too long. But she had been in his life in some capacity since before he left Morrowind and that meant she had shared his home, his thoughts, and even his heart for just as long.

Though he could do without the constant pit of worry that gnawed at his heart whenever she disappeared. Windhelm wasn’t exactly known as Dunmer-friendly. Things had only gotten worse since Ulfric openly declared war on the Empire and his people took it to mean open-season on anybody who wasn’t a Nord. While the Jarl never condoned the actions, he did very little to dissuade the growing animosity.

Less than a week after she left, Revyn was jerked awake by an incessant pounding on the front door. In the moments it took him to shake himself into lucidity, the pounding had risen into a crescendo. Not the city guard- they rarely knocked when they called for their random inspections. The Atherons had a key. The Hlaalus knew better than to wake him for less than a dragon siege. There were precious few others who would think to visit him in the dead of night

He swung his legs out of bed, pausing for a shirt and a dagger. Whoever was outside stopped hammering on the door as he unfastened the bolts unlocked the door. Cracking it open, he stared out into a freezing Windhelm night.

Naldyne swayed in the darkness, grinning unsteadily at him. Her eyes were wide, one arm wrapped around her waist, and her breathing shallow; he thought her drunk until he looked down and saw the blood dripping from the dagger wedged in her side.

"Hey," she croaked, and began to fall forward.

"Naldyne!" He yanked the door open and caught her just in time, pulling her inside and out of the cold. Revyn tried not to look at the pool of blood freezing on his front step.

She stumbled, half-conscious, as he pulled her to lay on the hastily cleared table. His hands shook, and his jaw clenched tightly, tugging her armour off her body. She grunted in agony when his attention came to the knife. "Azura take me..." she whined.

He swallowed hard, glancing up at her face. “Not yet,” he muttered. She was still and quiet, the grey of her skin almost white. "Why did you come here?" He asked her, half furious, half terrified. "Why not the temple? The alchemist?"

She shook her head, red eyes opening to focus only on him. "The Temple won't take me," she mumbled. "Nurelion’s a _fetcher._ And I don’t trust anyone else but you.”

He tried not to acknowledge the jump of his heart at her words. Bowing his head, he muttered a prayer and walked off into the shop. The advantage of competing with the White Phial was that his stock of healing potions and poultices were always high. Revyn swept them all into his arms and returned to her side.

"I have to pull it out," he told her.

She nodded, pushing a piece of leather in her mouth. Her eyes met his and Revyn blinked back tears. The dagger was poorly made; the blade jagged and blunt, cutting her more as it slid out of her body. The blood that followed turned his stomach. Naldyne let out a low moan of pain and then was still, limp; unconscious.

Revyn moved fast. A lifetime as a refugee had given him a good understanding of patching people up. His time as a shopkeeper hadn't erased those skills; Naldyne single-handedly made sure of it. Only once the wound was cleaned and stitched- it had been deep, painful, but not fatal- did he turn his attention to cleaning the floor. Her blood was everywhere. A trail of it led from the front door; Revyn felt sick.

Gingerly he made his bed and set her on it. Naldyne nuzzled into his pillow, a small smile on her face despite the pain. Revyn dragged a chair across and sprawled in it, eyes open and staring at the ceiling.

She slept through until morning. He dozed in fitful spurts until movement roused him. Naldyne was up, tending to her own wound, and half dressed in armour again. Leaving.

"Thank you," she said without looking at him. "For last night. I owe you."

"Don't mention it," Revyn replied. His voice was scratchy with sleep. Running tired hands down his face, he stood to make them both something to eat. Naldyne side-stepped into his path, half naked, her hands hovering just before his chest.

Her eyes focussed on everywhere but him. She struggled for a moment or two to speak, but eventually gave up the effort and shoved an Amulet of Mara in his hands. Revyn stared down at it, then up at her, blinking in shock.

"Is that... are you interested...?" His words failed him, throat dry. Naldyne smiled at him lightly.

"I thought it’s time I asked," she said. "For all the places I’ve been, nowhere in Skyrim feels like home as much as you do."

Revyn carefully set the amulet down on the table. Naldyne waited with bated breath as he took her hands in his, kissing her fingers. "Then it’s you and me. All of Skyrim should get ready to stand aside."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His marriage acceptance line is the best!


	17. Teldryn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teldryn x OC, Valkri  
> The first snippets of a longer fic  
> Bit of flirting, a very brief fight,  
> Nothing explicit except the banter  
> Mild innuendo if you squint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm posting this now to show I'm not dead, for one, and two... Christmas in retail sucks hard, so I'll probably be radio silent until the new year. I haven't had time to blow my nose let alone sit down and write! Much love to those who have left kudos and comments in the last few weeks, the trickle of attention this collection gets is honestly heartwarming.  
> I'll try to keep posting bits and pieces every so often but I probably won't be back properly until 2019. So for all of you out there, have a happy and safe holiday season for whatever comes with it, for wherever you are.

“I don’t suppose you have need of a sword, sera.”

She eyed up the mer across from her, his strange armour and unfamiliar accent hinting at something foreign and maybe a little dangerous. Solstheim was so far removed from anything Skyrim had to offer and this stranger seemed to sum it all up. “Do I get the mer attached to the sword as well?”

Behind his helmet, he hacked a cough and roughly cleared his throat. “For five hundred septims, you do,” he said.

Valkri winced. Her coin purse wasn’t exactly full, and the expense seemed a little extravagant; but she had seen the holes in the Bulwark, heard the Redoran guards talking about monsters living in- and created from- the ash. “Tel Mithryn,” she said. “Do you know the way?”

“Quite well,” he drawled, leaning on his elbows across the table. He seemed to sense that she was considering his offer and was eager to seal the deal. Valkri imagined it wasn’t often a potential patron walked into the Retching Netch. “I assure you, I’m worth every coin.”

Valkri slid a hand into her pocket. Tallying up the expense of passage over, plus the two nights of board she was paying Geldis for, and the tuition fee that Neloth was bound to ask of her; she had just enough to hire herself a guide and a guard with little to spare.

But arriving alive to see out her year was worth the coin.

“Half now, and half when I safely arrive,” she offered. He remained silent until the coin purse clinked on the table between them. Valkri shifted awkwardly in her seat while he counted it. Old warnings about crooked scam artists and dishonest elves flitted through her mind before she shoved them away. A Nord’s upbringing sat ill-at-ease with her blood heritage.

“Congratulations, Outlander. You just bought yourself the finest swordsman in Morrowind,” the stranger lifted his head to look at her through tiny glass goggles. His face was completely obscured but Valkri thought she heard a grin in his voice. “Teldryn Sero, at your service,” he said, offering his hand with a flourish.

“Valkri Fairchild, at yours,” she replied, a small smile tugging her mouth. “Shall we leave in the morning?”

Teldryn took his time in adding her payment to his pocket, but he nodded at her in assent. “You’re the boss,” he said, his voice a low rumble. Valkri felt her stomach flip over and cursed the reaction, biting her tongue to avoid telling him _not_ to use that tone. If he noticed the blush spreading across her cheeks he didn’t comment on it.

-{-}-

“ – and Master Neloth is _the_ top mind in Enchanting, and he even creates his own staves, which isn’t exactly common practice back in Winterhold. It’s all too fancy I think, or at least far too expensive to have the components shipped in for a bunch of students to practice on. My Enchanting master, Sergius, was one of Neloth’s apprentices about thirty years ago and he was pushing for me to come here too. He’s half the reason why I volunteered for this,” Valkri waved her hands wildly in the ash-scented air. She had been chattering non-stop for an hour. Teldryn walked in dutiful silence beside her, nodding when she paused for breath, his eyes scanning their surroundings for danger. The quiet sat ill inside her, forcing her to babble on to fill the silence.

“Only half the reason?” he asked her, tone hinting at teasing.

Valkri scoffed. “The other half was the adventure, I’ll admit. Morrowind is outside the Empire.”

Teldryn’s mouth turned up in a slight smile. “There are nicer places than Tel Mithryn, Valkri.”

Valkri kept her pace even with his despite the height difference between them, only a little out of breath because she couldn’t stop talking. “Good for them. As for me, I’m here and I’m happy for it. It’ll be nice to not have the Thalmor breathing down my neck all the time.”

“Thalmor?”

Her nose screwed up in comical disgust. “ _Advisor_ Ancano,” she spat the name like it tasted foul. “He says he’s at the College to _advise_ Arch-Mage Aren, but I’ve never seen him actually do any advising. He mostly lurks in shadows and tries to catch us doing something he doesn’t approve of, for the excuse to haul us off for interrogation.”

Teldryn snorted. “He sounds pleasant.”

“He’s a _delight,”_ Valkri replied flatly. Her tone lowered, and a scowl pulled at her brows. “He seems to have a particular interest in me. Keeps asking about my family, like I should know where I came from. It’s like he doesn’t believe that I don’t.” Her voice turned strained and she walked ahead, quickening her pace to take the lead. Teldryn didn’t miss her shaking hands or the way she wiped her face, trying to pull herself back together. Over her shoulder, Valkri said; “Stop looking at me like that.”

Teldryn raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. “I’m not looking at you in any particular way, sera.”

“I’m a magic-using mutt raised among Nords. I don’t need to see a face to know when someone’s looking at me,” she replied, quick as a whip.

Teldryn made a low hacking sound that she’d quickly come to identify as a laugh. “Alright,” he conceded. “I was just wondering what the punishment for punching a Thalmor official is.”

Valkri barked a laugh, stopping her maddened pace to spin and stare at him. “You’ve known me a day and you’d punch a Thalmor for me?”

“Of course! I would be glad for the opportunity!” Teldryn declared wildly, over-enunciating and flinging his arms wide, just because it made her roll her eyes and the downturn of her lips disappear. The darkened moment passed quickly, and as soon as Tel Mithryn graced the horizon Valkri was back to babbling about Neloth Telvanni, enchantments, and magical theories to make Teldryn’s head spin.

"Has anybody ever mentioned that you might talk too much?" Teldryn asked her. His tone was light and Valkri laughed it off, just as he expected she would.

"All the time. I used to drive my family mad, then poor Farengar had to put up with me until I was old enough to go to Winterhold. It's my one biggest flaw. In fact it's probably the main reason why the College agreed to send me here."

"You volunteered," Teldryn said, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Three paces ahead, he saw her white hair bounce in a nod. "Yeah but I'm barely an Apprentice. It's rare the first-year students get picked for an honour like this."

Teldryn snorted. "You and I have very different opinions on what's classed as an honour, Valkri Fairchild."

She laughed and waved her hand at him. Teldryn broke into a half jog to keep pace with her; she might be small but years of hard farm work and chasing bandits for bounties left her with plenty of speed and stamina. An advantage in a fight; Valkri would never overpower someone but she could outmanoeuvre them easily.

"Do you hear that?" She said, her tone dropped to a harsh whisper. Teldryn tuned in and caught up at once, cursing himself for not hearing it sooner.

All around them, the ash began to move. He summoned his atronach and drew his sword in the same motion, turning to face three of the ash spawn. He felt Valkri at his back, heard the harsh buzzing of a summon- and froze to stare at the daedric warrior towering over him. The beast of a creature let out a scream and charged headlong into the battle, caring little for its own wellbeing and demolishing everything in its path.

Valkri stepped after it, aiming careful bolts of lightning and striking her targets clean. Teldryn snapped out of his reverie as a sword swung in front of his face, nearly cleaving his chitin armour.

"Boethiah inspire me!" He roared. In minutes the fight was over; six ash spawn lay dead and Valkri stood between him and her hulking daedric companion. With no more targets it set its black stare on him.

"I WILL CRUSH YOU!" It bellowed.

Valkri shoved her palms out, an empty summoning orb absorbing the warrior in mid-stride.

The look she gave him was almost sheepish. "Sorry about him," she said. "He gets a little carried away."

Teldryn's mouth was hanging open, not that she could see it beneath his helmet. Shock gave way to grudging admiration, something warm and tightly coiled beginning to form in his stomach.

"I'm glad that I'm finally travelling with someone who seems competent," he said, the words feeling forced now even if they made Valkri laugh and reach a hand up to pat his shoulder. His throat was dry, and he couldn't take his eyes off her when she headed off into the ash.

If she could summon creatures like  _that_  to protect her, why on Nirn did she hire  _him_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest. Valkri is kind of my baby; she's the one I've been working on rounding for the last few months, she's the one I've been writing and rewriting a backstory for. Just when I think I've finally got most of her storyline and personality figured out, she goes and changes something on me. She's by far the most difficult character I've ever tried to write, but at the same time my favourite.


	18. Brynjolf (slightly NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brynjolf x Male Oc Markian  
> Swearing, drinking,  
> Steamy bits, making out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is part of a Brynjolf backstory I had planned to work into a longer fic. Life has been a bit of a creativity black hole just recently so I've done far less than I'd like in the way of progress. Nonetheless I didn't want to let this story sit stagnant for too long... and also wanted to prove I'm still around if I'm honest.

“Honestly, a lot of my life choices boils down to ‘I was drunk, and it sounded fun’.”

“Probably not a healthy way to live, lad,” Brynjolf rumbled.

“Listen, princess, you can’t lecture me. You’re not exactly walking the line of sweet and sober,” Markian pointed at Brynjolf roughly, the mead sloshing out of his mug and down his hand. With a little squeak of surprise, Markian set about licking it up, tongue curling along his hand, around his fingers. It took a minute, but he soon caught on to the hungry look in Brynjolf’s eye. Without a shred of shame, Markian slowed down and made damn sure he heard every little moan uttered under his breath.

 _“Fuck me,”_ Brynjolf muttered, hands balled into fists.

Markian grinned lecherously. “I’m certainly trying,” he quipped. He met Brynjolf’s gaze steadily. Nowhere near as drunk as he was acting; tipsy, certainly, but if it wasn’t Blackbriar then it wasn’t worth piss. Markian had drunk stronger swill from a bandit’s backwater hovel.

“Little shit,” Brynjolf snarled, with no fire in his tone. “You done here?”

“Definitely.”

Tossing money on the counter, Brynjolf all but dragged Markian out the door. Laughing, giddy, he turned the tables and pulled Brynjolf into the shadows behind the tavern. He didn’t bother trying to fight. Turning mid-step to kiss him, hard, Markian made short work of buttons and belt to press his sticky, freezing hands to the flesh beneath. Brynjolf hissed a curse and shoved him against the wall, looming. Teeth and tongue and hands pawing at Markian’s clothes, beneath his clothes, the frigid air offset by the heat they were throwing off.

Brynjolf broke the kiss first, catching Markian’s wrists in one hand. Pinned them to the wall above his head. The height difference was never so pronounced but Brynjolf couldn’t deny he liked how his shadow swallowed Markian up. “You sure about this?” he asked.

Markian whined. Needy little bastard. “You can’t kiss me like that and expect me to walk away,” he moaned. Trying to pull his hands free was futile, but he could still roll his hips against Brynjolf’s.

“I don’t want this to get in the way of business-”

“For fuck’s sake, Brynjolf, if you don’t want to, I’ll go find Maul-”

He snarled and cut the teasing off with a kiss. By the triumphant grin against his mouth, it was exactly what Markian had been aiming for. With his hands pinned and his hips held still by Brynjolf’s large hand curled around his thigh, Markian could do little but throw everything he had into the kiss. His tongue in Brynjolf’s mouth, tasting of mead and promising pleasure. The hand on his hip tightened, grip almost painful, but Markian had never been afraid of pain. Especially when it was followed by long-awaited pleasure _._

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Brynjolf muttered against his mouth.

Markian laughed. “I’d like you to be a pain in mine.”

That did it. For all his jokes and innuendo, Markian had never once said anything he didn’t mean. Brynjolf rolled his eyes and dragged his hands higher up the wall, stretching his body until he couldn’t touch the ground. The little gasp gave him a moment’s pause, but Brynjolf was aware of the hunger in Markian’s eyes. “Been teasing me all night,” he growled, leaning in to pepper light kisses along his neck. “Drivin’ me up the fuckin’ wall, knowin’ what you do to me. Was all I could do not to throw you on the table an’ fuck you right there for all of Riften to see.”

Brynjolf bit down on Markian’s neck and he moaned, louder than he intended, as Brynjolf sucked her skin into a bruise. “Shit, Bryn, I’m yours. Anything, everything, I want you- touch me, kiss me, _fuck me._ Here, now, let them watch, I don’t care.”

Chuckling, he soothed the hurt with a kiss. “Aye, lad, I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wondered why Brynjolf doesn't respond to the flirting of my Dragonborns. So I invented him a backstory called Markian. There might be more of these two in later chapters, but updates are going to be sparse for a while whilst I regain my mojo. Thanks for sticking with me!


End file.
